Eldorado
by csishewolf
Summary: Ever wonder what the CSI gang would be like in the Old West? AU. Historical Romance GSR. Complete.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** So very not mine. Just taking them on one helluva journey.  
**Rating/Pairing/Spoilering/etc.:** Teen, GSR, no spoilers. AU (but is it?). Definitely pushing OOC in the AU realm.  
**Props**: To Cybrokat and Jennie, for being wonderful betas. To Cincoflex, dreamsofhim, and all you other wonderful people on my LJ who helped me and provided wonderful feedback and concrit. You know who you are. Much thanks and appreciation from me to you.  
_  
_**A/N: **_So, this fic is just plain different. The majority of this takes places in the Old West, in the town of Nelson, NV, which exists today as a ghost town. How the reality of this works is a little fuzzy, which is my intent. Is it real? Is it a dream? Who knows, but it's a story._

* * *

The mid-day heat beats down on the small collection of people standing idle near aged buildings and Nevada state vehicles. Sweat tinged with impatience is hovering in the still and dusty air. 

All eyes focus as yet another vehicle bounces its way towards them. It is David, the assistant coroner, and he's a half-hour late.

Captain Jim Brass doesn't say one word as he approaches the van. Looks are exchanged, and David is silent as he joins the procession of officers and CSIs. They cross the crime scene tape, heading into the gaping maw of the abandoned mine. Such mines are common in the lower parts of Clark County, especially near the Colorado River and Lake Mohave. This particular mine is a tourist attraction, which may be why it was chosen as a dump site for their 419.

Claustrophobia isn't a question, it's a given as they travel further along the internal passages. David stays close to Gil Grissom, who seems the most at ease with his surroundings. His associate, Sara Sidle, is much less comfortable, but she's hiding her apprehension well. Jim Brass is with Detective Vartann, the two conversing quietly with each other as they maneuver through tight passageways and duck around low ceilings. Their leader and guide is the owner of the touring company. His daughter and the senior citizens group who took today's mid-morning tour most certainly had an experience they'll never forget.

It is cooler in the belly of the mine, but the dampness keeps the sweat beading on each and every forehead. The smell of human decomposition is present as well. After a few more turns, the dead woman's body is revealed.

David quickly gets to work with his diagnostics and declarations. He and Vartann then allow the two CSIs to perform their preliminaries while they ready the body bag. Brass begins his interrogation of the owner. After Grissom gives his typical nod of dismissal, David and Vartann spend the next fifteen minutes hauling the body bag topside. It isn't until the body is loaded into the van and David is seated and ready to depart that Grissom and Sara return. Brass is with them, speaking earnestly with Grissom, while Sara loads her kit and the collected evidence into the SUV. A vial of something or other finds its way free from the others; it bounces off the bumper of the SUV, rolling past the main road into the scraggly underbrush.

David smiles as Sara utters quite the obscenity. She finishes her work within the SUV quickly. Sporting a frown, she plods along in search of her errant evidence. She's wandering in the wrong direction and only David seems to notice as she treks further and further into the deserted wasteland surrounding them.

A cry from the opposite direction breaks David's focus on the pretty Sara. He turns his head and sees the tour company owner through his van's passenger window. The owner is standing on the porch of his facility, yelling and waving frantically in Sara's direction. Both Grissom and Brass turn their heads, but Sara doesn't seem to hear.

It's then that David turns back towards Sara; she's still hunched over, her head moving from side to side, scanning the dirt and weeds. There's a shift in her movement right before an explosive wave of dust fills the air. David hears Grissom's sharp cry of her name as he himself is opening the van's door and preparing to run towards the dissipating cloud. The combined voices of Grissom, Jim Brass, and the now panicking owner stop him in his tracks.

The owner reaches David first, but the two older men aren't far behind. "That area's unstable," the owner says in a high voice. "There are open shafts and weak spots, air holes covered by debris or uprooted brush. It's off-limits; I should have mentioned it to you earlier. I am so incredibly sorry!"

All four men stand next to the coroner's van as the dust cloud clears and Sara Sidle is nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_Please keep in mind, this is AU in a very different kind of way, as I'm sure you'll figure out after this chapter. And the family of Doc Robbins described within does not conform with canon. Again, please consider this as AU in that regard._

* * *

"Is she going to die?" 

The voice is familiar… I know it… but I can't place it. It's dark, and for some reason that doesn't surprise me. I think about it a little more and I realize it's because my eyes are closed. This makes sense because I'm in a bed; I can feel its softness beneath me. Closing your eyes is something you do while in a bed.

"No, David. She isn't going to die. But we need to be very careful with her. Head injuries can be dangerous if not treated with respect. Hand me a cloth from near the basin, please. A fresh one, not the one we've been using."

I know that voice too.

"Yessir."

I hear the sounds of someone scuffing along the floor. The floor sounds different, dirty. This seems odd to me – why would the floor be dirty where these people are? It is like it shouldn't be so. I attempt to open my eyes and the pain is blinding.

"Easy, Miss Sidle. Easy now. You've suffered a concussion; trauma to your brain. Do you understand?"

"…yehhsss…" My throat feels like I've drowned in a sand dune - I can't speak. Panic seizes me and I gasp instinctively. A cool trickle reaches my lips and I lick and swallow. That seems to work so I try to relax a bit. I feel the hand touching my hair softly, taking solace in its comfort. Someone is caring for me; I will be okay.

"Are you okay, Miss Sidle? My goodness, ma'am, are you okay?" This is the first voice, younger than the second, full of concern. I know these voices, but their names elude me still. When I try to remember, a sharp pain stabs my head and white dots flash before my eyes.

"David!" the older voice orders, "Please give her some room. Let her come around on her own time."

Yes! That's the name. David.

"Yessir. Sorry, Doc."

This makes sense. I know a David who works with a doctor. The doctor's name is still a mystery but the scenario is familiar.

The Doc continues to offer me sips of water, speaking to me softly. I am not to raise my head or open my eyes until he tells me so. I am to answer the questions he is asking me. I tell him my name is Sara Sidle and this seems to be the proper response. I tell him my age and that also seems to be the proper response. But when I tell him my birth date, there is silence.

"Is that wrong?" I ask, my voice akin to a child's.

"Just rest a bit, Miss Sidle," the Doc says reassuringly. "I will be right back. David, try to keep her awake for as long as you can."

I hear the scrape of the Doc's shoes along the floor that should not be so noisy. I drift in and out as David prattles on incessantly and pokes me periodically. He's through sharing his life's history with me and has moved on to telling me some nonsense about a festival when the Doc returns.

"Miss Sidle, you can open your eyes now."

I do so, and it takes a while for me to focus. I'm in a bed, like I thought, but I'm not in a hospital. At least, not a hospital I'm familiar with. I recognize David. Phillips is his last name, and the Doc is named Al. Al Robbins. I know these people. But my surroundings are strange.

"Do you know where you are?" Doc Robbins voice is kind, calm. I have a new appreciation for him and his bedside manner. For some reason, I didn't think he would be good with people, and now I'm not sure why.

I turn my head to face them, catching my first full glimpse of a very concerned David with strange glasses perched on his nose. "Not really."

"Do you know who we are?"

"Yes," I reply confidently. "And I know who I am. I am Sara Sidle…" Something should come after that. I have a title or something. But… it's like where the words should be… there's nothing.

"I have amnesia," I state.

"Yes," Robbins nods. "I'm afraid you do."

It's then I notice his crutches. They're wood, which rings wrong to me. For some reason, my mind remembers them as shiny and metallic. And this room, most everything is soft and homey, where I expected cold and utilitarian. The lighting is provided naturally from the sun outside; the furniture is sparse and simple. White linen curtains and white bedding on my bed. The lamp sitting on the bed stand nearby is fueled by oil, its wick dark and short with use. Next to it rests an old-fashioned Bible, the silk ribbon dangling over the side of the stand.

"This isn't right," I say.

"It probably doesn't seem right, m'dear, but it is. You are in the settlement of Nelson, near the Techatticup Mine. You live here - with me, Ann and David. You are a registered nurse of The Union, Yankee-born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. Does any of that sound familiar?"

My mind is spinning and I put my hands to my head. Doc Robbins touches my shoulder gently. "It will come back to you, dear. Just rest here for the evening and I'll have Annie bring you something to sup' later."

I lay back against the pillows, noticing they are full of soft feathers. I look down, blinking at my own attire in surprise. I'm wearing some type of nightgown, soft and somewhat threadbare. It's a shift. I'm wearing a shift. What the hell am I doing in a shift?

My head aches. I reach up and touch the focal point of the pain with a wince. Yup, there's a nice bump there.

So, I have amnesia. I remember nothing about where I am, or what happened to cause the lovely lump on my noggin. Isn't this just my luck.

Time passes as I watch the sun travel across the wooden floor of my room. I must have drifted off again, because the next thing I know, an older woman who's dressed like she just walked off the frontier comes into the room. I don't recognize her and she knows it, but she smiles at me kindly as she brings a tray over. There's a fresh-baked roll of sorts and a clear soup loaded with root vegetables. It seems I eat this sort of thing as my stomach rumbles at the sight of it.

It isn't bad, and the older woman, Annie, watches me like a hawk until I've eaten every last spoonful. This apparently makes her happy, because she nods in approval when I'm finished. "I'll fix you up a cup of tea in a bit. My own blend; has magnolia in it. You just rest there and let your supper settle in. That's a special broth I made, 'twill clear your mind up rightly by the morn. Right as rain, you'll be. Right as rain."

I sincerely doubted that, but I nod politely at her. I don't remember much else, as whatever she put in that soup knocked me out for the next twelve hours. Which was disappointing, because I was curious about that tea.

oooooooooooo

I wake the next day to the sounds and smells of breakfast. The day has started without me. Rising from my bed, I yelp as my bare feet touch the cold floor. Who knew oak could be so damned cold? I look around and find a well-worn pair of sandals tucked underneath the ruffle of the bed. Slipping them on requires a little effort; I seem to be rather wobbly. But I get them on and head towards the source of the noise and the smells.

My appearance is apparently unexpected as both Doc Robbins and David gape at me while Annie jumps up like a snake bit her ass. "Miss Sara! Good heavens! We mustn't have you out and about like this. Let's go and get you more suited for the day, shall we?"

She hustles me back into my bedroom. With a harsh tone, she explains how it isn't proper for ladies to be seen in their shifts. I find this interesting since Doc Robbins and David had clearly cared for me while I was in said shift. But that is irrelevant to her as she fusses with my hair, using a large handled ornate brush and her own fingers to comb through the snarls. She then outfits me in a different shift, a thin white shirt with a full collar and long, puffy sleeves, and a drab-colored skirt that just brushed the tops of my feet. I have no idea why I tolerate this, but I do. I did draw the line when she wanted to cinch me up in a corset. This led her to claim that her soup is clearly working and I would be back to my old self in no time. I personally was glad to learn that the Sara before me wouldn't wear such nonsense either.

Annie walks me back to the main dining area and goes through some formality to re-introduce me to Doc Robbins and David. They both smile, nodding politely as if all is normal and well in the world. But no one is fooled; we all know it is not. I help myself to some of Annie's griddlecakes but shy away from the bacon and sausage. For some reason, the meat does not appeal to me. This didn't seem to be out of the ordinary, as Annie pours me a cup of some type of tea as well as a small glass of juice. Apple, I think. We all eat in semi-silence, my lack of memory ruining any chance of conversation.

I finally break the stasis after my last bite of griddlecake. "Where did you find me?"

This is apparently the money maker question of the day as everyone at the table suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable.

David finally replies. "A friend brought you to us, ma'am. He claimed he found you down by the mine and was a'feared of what might become you down there. The men of the mine, and all."

"A friend... Does this friend have a name?" I'm curious about what happened to me, and why I was found in a place where I apparently never should have been.

"Uh… ma'am?" David is deliberately vague and both Annie and Al are giving him sharp looks.

"A name," I repeat. "Who rescued me from this fate worse than death?"

Annie settles herself in her chair, her gaze sharp and direct. "El Vaquero de la Noche brought you here, hun."

By their expressions, this is supposed to have some impact on me, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. "Who's he?"

They all look at each other blankly before Al murmurs quietly, "Amnesia."

Annie again takes it upon herself to educate me. "He's… well, he's as his name says, a man of the night. Some folks reckon he's the local version of Robin Hood, watching over us and makin' sure the peace is kept. Others say he's a bandit and a scoundrel that'll steal your claim and your wife without more than a backwards glance. And then there's some," she says pointedly at me, "that are quite sure he's a rebel outlaw and a murderer."

"Some… meaning me," I state.

Al and Annie give a slight nod as David replies solemnly, "Yes'm Miss Sara."

"Would you mind telling me who I think this El Vaquero murdered?"

"Ma'am, he murdered your brother."


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _Still here? Good. This chapter brings our pal Grissom into the mix. Because really, this is me writing GSR as a warped historical romance novel. Cheezy and cliche'd? You betcha! Updates after this will be weekly. I wanted to give you readers enough of the story up front to do it justice. I'm already way ahead in terms of writing this. I shall NOT leave this hanging as a WIP, I promise!_

* * *

It takes a while for their words to sink in. I am glad I am sitting, as my head is pounding and I feel rather woozy. I have a brother. Well, I had one. Apparently this Vaquero murdered him. 

Annie starts to recount what must have been the story I told them when I arrived. It seems I got word from the Boston liaison of the Union Army that my brother had been killed during the war. I did not take this well and demanded to know how his death had occurred. My brother was a medical officer, a doctor stationed far from the front lines. He should not have been in jeopardy. I learned no more details regarding his death until the surviving members of the local infantry unit returned to Massachusetts. From them I learned that a Confederate soldier, bitter over the loss of the war and the stipulations of the Emancipation Proclamation, had attacked my brother and a few others along one of the highways in the backwoods of Tennessee in rebellious protest. Four officers, along with my brother, were on their way to a ceremony in Chattanooga. They were slaughtered mercilessly by the roadside.

I've been tracking this rogue soldier ever since. I traveled to Tennessee, only to learn that the man was considered a hero by those in the south. The people I spoke with had claimed the murders were an inside job, and that the Army was using their man as a scapegoat. I doubted this and the Army denied any wrongdoing. I was also told that it was quite possible the soldier had left Tennessee and headed for parts west, most likely following the tales of gold and riches in the uncharted land. Upon hearing this, I returned to my hometown and enlisted myself into the Union Army as a nurse, requesting assignment as far west as I could go. I've been hopping from town to town; traveling the new railroad as far as its tracks would take me.

I wound up here four months ago, after learning of El Vaquero de la Noche. I was apparently searching for him down at the mines when I had my 'unfortunate' accident.

My first thought after learning all this was that the Sara I was before had clearly lost her mind. Traveling clear across the country, chasing some thin story about a Confederate rogue? My second thought was that my accident was looking less like an accident and more like an attack, and that even though the Sara I was before might be nuts, she clearly upset someone.

It seems I am not very good at hiding my emotions, as Annie starts to defend this El Vaquero. She must have noticed my disdain. I find it extremely suspicious that the man I'm looking for just happens to rescue me from some unknown peril. I touch the lump on my forehead gently. Did he do this to me?

"He didn't do it, honey. He's done a lot of good for Nelson and Eldorado. We had problems down there at the mines, people getting beaten or even killed almost every day. There was a bad element down there. Ever since he rode into town, he's kept things in line. We all know the sheriff and his greenhorn deputy can't handle everything down there, and he must've known it too. He's an asset to this community."

Annie folds her arms with a 'hmmph', making her point clear.

"Well, I appreciate you sharing all this with me, but for now, I'll have to reserve judgment." I smile wanly and raise my hand to my head. "I'm not really up for debating the merits of a man I can't remember."

This is painfully true. The throbbing ache in my head is getting worse. Al notices and rises to examine me.

"David," he says, "once Miss Sara has completed her breakfast, please take her down to the store. Inform Mr. Grissom of her condition, and ask him if there is perhaps a tonic or powder he could give her that might ease her pains."

Al then turns to me and says gently, "Mr. Grissom will help you."

Grissom. Is that name familiar? I ponder this while Annie clears the table and David readies himself for our outing. Before I walk out the door, I'm handed a floppy-brimmed hat, which I'm told I must wear; otherwise the sun will damage my fair complexion. I feel like an idiot, but I put on the hat.

The view that meets me once I leave the not-quite familiar surroundings of the Robbins' home is nothing if not surprising. Roads are little more than wide dirt trails, and dust lingers in the air after a breeze passes by. Buildings are solid but utilitarian, clearly labeled as to their purpose and function. We pass the bank, the blacksmith, the tailor, and various other non-descript two-story structures that I can only assume are residences for the local townsfolk. When we near the center of town, the general store is clearly marked as the large building on the corner.

I'm really not paying attention to my escort; David's been speaking avidly of who lives where, who works there, and how the Midsummer's Town Festival will be such an event, with everyone preparing in earnest over the next few days. Today is apparently a Tuesday, and the festival is to be held on Saturday. There will be competitions for men, women and children. The height of the festival is the cookout and honest-to-god hoedown that they're holding behind the local saloon. The Silver Pole Saloon.

We reach the store, and David enters firsts, calling out for Mr. Grissom. A young man rushes from behind the counter right to my side. Is this Mr. Grissom?

"Miss Sara! I heard about what happened to you at the mines. Holy Jesus!" he says. He is hovering close to me while David gives a slight cough and a long stare in this man's direction.

"Oh, begging your pardon, ma'am. I didn't mean to take the name of Our Lord in vain. But when I heard, my God… err… my goodness Miss Sara! You could have been killed!"

David finally speaks. "Miss Sara has suffered trauma to her head." And in a hushed voice he says, "She has amnesia."

The young man whispers back. "She's lost her memory?"

"I can't remember much of anything," I say. "In fact, I have no idea who in the world you are."

The young man's face falls and he looks at me strangely, as if I'm joking and I will suddenly return to the Sara he must have known. His stare lasts just long enough to be awkward, and I turn away from him, my eyes downcast to the floor.

David, in an unexpected show of diplomacy, introduces me to the young man. "Miss Sara, this is Mr. Gregory Sanders. He is Mr. Grissom's assistant in overseeing this store."

Mr. Sanders sticks out his hand formally. "Please, call me Greg. You, uh… everyone does." I shake his hand, finding his grip overly vigorous. He releases mine quickly and shoots David a dark look. "I'm more than an assistant. Why, if I wasn't here… this whole place would fall apart. If I wasn't here…"

He's interrupted by a low, deeply-male voice from the far side of the store.

"If you weren't here… what, Mr. Sanders?" The tone is irritated, annoyed.

All our heads turn towards the source. "Mr. Grissom!" David says excitedly. Greg says nothing, but looks suitably embarrassed and humbled.

The man steps out of the shadows of the rear doorway, and intense blue eyes meet mine. I know them, in some deep intimate way, and the realization flashes fire across my skull like an atomic bomb. I hear myself gasp at the intensity. There is blinding white light, the sound of my name on his lips, and then I slip into the dark of nothingness.

oooooooooooo

I awake with a cough and something quite foul shoved under my nose.

"There," he whispers to me. "Easy now, Sara."

The voice, like honey and thunder mixed. I know it, and there is pain associated with it. My head pounds, internal lightning flickering and flashing behind my eyes.

"Will she be all right?" It is Greg this time, not David, who is questioning my welfare. Has David left me here? I crack open an eye when I hear someone approaching me, and I am relieved to see two faces equally etched with concern, both hovering above my own. I've been relocated; I'm laying on my back in yet another bed. But this time, it's not my own. There's a light scent of maleness, and horses, and something else I can't define. Pain stabs into my skull when I realize I must be in Mr. Grissom's bed.

"She's coming around Greg, so yes, she'll be fine. Please leave us for a moment."

David hesitates. "Uh… are you sure about that, Mr. Grissom? Meaning no disrespect sir, but…"

I sense that he's concerned about me being alone with this man. I'm not too pleased about it myself, and I hope they both stick around for a while. But my hope is short-lived.

"Greg, David… she needs some time for the salts to take effect. Please, wait for her downstairs in the store."

I hear them depart and soon the room is silent except for the soft sounds of his breathing and my own. He says nothing as he lays a cool damp cloth across my forehead. Full minutes pass until the pain recedes. It is then that I open my eyes, half-afraid to meet the intensity of those baby-blues.

I'm disappointed as the blue seems to have faded to a milder, mediocre grey. His voice has lost that dark timbre from before; it is much more formal, impersonal.

"It appears you fainted, Miss."

"It seems that way," I reply. The connection I felt with him before is gone. He is nothing more that what he appears to be, a shopkeeper expressing concern for the young lady who collapsed in his store. Still, there is an undercurrent of something not-quite-right, and I log it away for review later.

"I'm going to make you up a tonic for your head injury. It will help with your headaches and dizziness."

"An anti-inflammatory?" I ask. He stares at me in honest surprise. I'm somewhat surprised myself. It must be my nurse's training.

"Yes, mixed with a mild sedative. You should take this each evening, or whenever your head bothers you."

I nod slightly when he rises and leaves the room. I wait a few moments before attempting to remove myself from the bed to examine my surroundings. The man's room is simple, spartan. There's no evidence of family, of friends, of anything. The only things that are somewhat unique are the dried herbs hanging from a homemade rack in the corner. I am hesitant to touch them, as they look fragile. In a way, they are rather pretty; some are clearly from flowering plants and their colors are bright and cheery. There is a mixture of odors as well; I sneeze at the olfactory overload. Time passes, allowing me to sniff every herb and examine every countertop. I'm debating whether to poke around through his dresser drawers when he returns.

"Ah good," he says. "You are up and about again."

"Yeah, I think I'll be okay."

He motions for me to follow him, so I do and he leads down a narrow hallway to a set of stairs. I think nothing of it as I start to make my way down, but the steps seem to slip from beneath my feet, causing me to lose my balance. That instinctive jolt of panic rushes through me and I reach for the handrail, my grip slipping against the wood as I fall. My body jerks to a stop when I feel his hands grasping my shoulders. I lean backwards to stabilize myself, instantly feeling the warmth of his body against my back. I turn and look over my shoulder. The intense blue has returned, and heat rushes through my body, pooling in a location that should not be having any thoughts of pooling, or anything else for that matter. We stand there on the stairs, unable to move, unable to break the contact.

A noise from below does the disconnecting for us; the innocent face of Greg Sanders peering up the stairwell brings me back from wherever the hell I just was. I glance at Mr. Grissom, and he's the non-descript shopkeeper again. Part of me wonders if I'm imagining the electric blue of his gaze. Perhaps he resembles someone I've known, someone I once cared about.

Slowly I make my way down the stairs and back towards the store. David is there waiting; he looks rather frazzled. Once I've assured him that I am okay, we stand idly and wait while Mr. Grissom prepares the tonic for me. Greg brings it out, handing it to David and not me. It seems I can't be trusted with it. There's a mumbling about charging it to 'our account' and we're gone.

On the way back to the place I can't yet consider as 'home', I ask David about Mr. Grissom. David explains he came to town a little more than a year ago, taking over for an elderly couple who used to run the store. Greg Sanders is the elderly couple's grand-nephew - brought in from the east a few months ago, around the same time I arrived in town. Greg was apparently raising hell back home and his parents decided he needed to take on some responsibility and settle himself down. I could easily see that; Greg was adrenaline personified. The elderly couple had spoken highly of Mr. Grissom, and a family decision was made to send Greg to him as an apprentice. It was apparently common knowledge that Mr. Grissom would move on in a few years, following the growth of the frontier and the cultivation of the West. His skill with medicinal things was now well known and much respected. Not to mention the fact that although Mr. Grissom was competent, it was preferred to keep the store within the family.

I questioned why he would even take over the store in the first place, if it was never the intention for him to keep it.

David's reply was that Mr. Grissom did originally plan to open up his own apothecary in town, but once the plight of the couple was brought to his attention, he took over the store and included his tonics and remedies as an addition to the groceries and dry goods. I stared at the brown paper bag in David's hand, wondering what exactly it was that I would be drinking later today. Instinctively I knew it would help me, and a fluttering of trust for a man I didn't know wafted through me.

I asked if there was a Mrs. Grissom and David stopped dead in his tracks.

"Why no ma'am. Mr. Grissom is a confirmed bachelor. And really, who would want to marry such a man? If you can look past his age, his life is his medicines and the store. He lives above it, as I'm sure you realize now, and he owns no land. He's made no secret of his wishes to move west once Greg is ready to assume responsibility for the store and take over as the town apothecary. He has no fortune, no foundation to provide for a family. Even if he did, I couldn't picture him with a wife and children at his side."

I couldn't either, but I couldn't deny the attraction I felt for him. In a fit of girlishness, I asked about my opinions of the man.

"You ma'am? Well, I wouldn't rightly know. You've been very focused on solving the death of your brother, and the clinic is never short for patients. When you aren't helping the Doc and me, you spend most of your free time either in your room, or in the company of Mr. Sanders."

I must have had a weird look on my face, because David clarified quickly. "You and he are very good friends, ma'am. He's come a-calling for you as more than a friend on numerous occasions; he and Deputy Stokes and a few others. But you've made yourself clear on that regard, let me tell you."

I get the impression I've made it clear to David as well, but I say nothing and let him continue.

"Still, you enjoy Mr. Sanders' company. You and he will spend afternoons or spare moments playing chess or solving various word puzzles." David stops in front of the door into the clinic and states rather seriously, "He cares very much for you, Miss Sara. Many people in Nelson do. Please keep that in mind." He turns and walks into the waiting area, leaving me standing in the doorway, wondering what the hell that was all about.

Despite David's conviction of my friendship to Greg, I find it interesting that it is Mr. Grissom and not Mr. Sanders who seems to provoke a response within me. It's all very interesting, and I'm eager to learn more about what exactly my life is, here in this busy little western town.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _Moving along, here comes some more western fun. I believe all my details are correct, but if I am mistaken, please let me know. I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it._

* * *

Two days pass where I do little more than assist David, Al and Annie in the running of the clinic. But that little I do is actually quite a lot. There's more work to be done than I could have ever imagined. I find myself exhausted at the end of each day. My headaches still strike me at the strangest moments, but I've learned that there is nothing significant in their arrival. I dismiss my encounter with Mr. Grissom as just another one of my 'spells', and focus my attention on the tasks at hand.

For the record, cleaning bed pans has got to be one of the most unappealing tasks this side of the Mississippi. It's just my luck that there's no shortage of bed pans either, the clinic is almost to capacity each day with the sick and injured.

There are no sick people in what is termed the 'ward'; those with sniffles or scalds or other minor ailments are seen by Al or David and sent to Mr. Grissom for various remedies. The ward is full of the injured; men with devastating wounds they received in the mines. Some are caused by explosions; the charred flesh makes those pretty distinctive. The gunshots are pretty obvious as well. But some could have been caused by numerous things, one of which is the axe of another miner. Or a knife. A large knife.

Two men in the clinic were part of a mining group attacked by Indians during a raid. Most of the men in that group were killed, but these two men escaped. Not without injury though, both had received arrows in their backs as parting gifts from the raid. One man was not as lucky as the other; his arrow had punctured a lung. The other man would be well enough to leave the clinic by tomorrow. However, he wouldn't be doing any mining for quite a while. His right arm would be in a sling until the muscle tissue healed. I was fortunate enough to be the messenger of this news, and I assure you, it did not go over well.

I found the concept of random attacks by Indian savages disconcerting. I questioned Annie about our safety, and she assured me that such raids, although not unheard of, were relatively rare. White men were making something of a truce with the local tribes, allowing them access to the mines and, somewhat sneakily, having the Indians perform some of the more dangerous work for a pittance of a wage, or for whiskey. It seemed the younger men of the local tribes had a definite taste for the bitter amber liquid; they were willing to do just about anything to have it.

Of course, in Annie's mind there was nothing to fear. El Vaquero would protect us. I kept my scoff to myself. Annie made no secret of her devotion to the local hero. I have yet to see or hear of any recent escapades of the man who rescued me and potentially murdered my brother.

But thoughts of that are not at the forefront of my mind. The reality of the harshness of the land, combined with the intense amount of work I'd done in the past two days, instills a new respect within me for this supposed simple life. I can only imagine the grit and determination the Sara before me must have had. I spend a lot of time thinking about her. This in itself is enough to make my head turn cartwheels, since I am, in fact, her.

Greg does stop by each day, and although we do not play chess, we do spend time together. He takes me for short walks around the town, explaining the shops and their proprietors with such overzealous descriptions that I find myself laughing at the poor people long after our tours of the town are over. Greg is a much more interesting and informative guide than David. I find myself at ease in his company. I wonder why Sara has not taken a stronger interest in the young man; he is clearly entertaining and quite fond of her. Well… me.

I muddle over this during dinner, as well as afterwards when I help Annie clear the table. As I am scrubbing the tin plates in the large ceramic sink, she surprises me from behind with a tap on my shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" There's a ton of implied meaning in her question; she needs something from me.

"I'm feeling much better. What is it you need, Annie?"

She smiles at my intuition, just like I suspected she would. She is an open book to me, one with very large print. However, to my surprise, she proceeds to explain one of my chores that I was unaware of. Caring for my horse, Pista.

"I have a horse?"

"Oh yes, dear. She's rather bone-headed for a filly, but you are quite fond of her and she of you. She's been rather restless out in the barn. You haven't been to visit her since your… since then. She's starting to crib."

I didn't know what cribbing was, but apparently it is not a good thing for horses to do.

"Take me to her," I say, a glow of happiness dancing in my belly. I have a horse!

I'm stunned when I see her. She's absolutely beautiful. She's a dark chestnut color, with a coal black mane and tail. Her head is small; her eyes bright. I adore her instantly. Annie leads me to her stall where I see the damage she's done, and that the stall needs some serious mucking. Pista tosses her head, nickering as I approach. I smile and want very much to ride her.

"I can ride her, right?"

"Honey, you're the only one who can."

So with Annie's help, I take Pista out of her stall, give her a quick brushing with a curry comb, and saddle her up. She fidgets and stomps with obvious impatience. Annie helps me up and just as I settle my weight in the saddle, Pista gives a little leap, shooting us out of the barn like a rocket.

I freak out and lean back in the saddle, desperate to regain control. After a few moments of bouncing around, Pista slows drastically and eventually stops. We're out in the middle of the desert, the barn and the town far behind us. The sun is low in the sky but there's at least an hour of daylight left. We're just standing there when Pista actually turns her head, looking at me with this "What the heck are we doing?" expression.

"Beats me. I couldn't ride you if I tried." I lean forward and to the right when I say this. In response, she starts walking towards our left. I sit back and she slows.

Ah. I lean forward; she starts up again. I lean to the right and she turns left. I take a better hold of her reigns and start to work her. Somehow my body remembers this skill. I can ride! Within ten minutes or so, we're galloping across the sandy land, leaving dust in our wake. Tears are beading at the corners of my eyes and I've never felt so free in my life.

Pista is enjoying this as well but when she starts to labor, I slow her down to a lope and then a walk. She catches her breath while I scan the horizon. Luckily for us, we did a full circle. We're now about a half mile away from the barn. There are enough lights in the windows to guide us if it gets too dark, but I'm not eager to wander my way through the desert at night.

We walk for a while, the sun retreating and blanketing us in twilight. The barn is no closer and I'm starting to get a little nervous. It's then I hear the sounds of another rider approaching us at a breakneck pace. I kick Pista into a canter but the rider comes from out of the desert and cuts in front of us, stopping about fifty yards ahead. Pista rears, squealing a challenge and scaring me half to death. The stallion snorts in reply, pawing the ground aggressively. I'm beyond panic when a short, high pitched whistle cuts the air. This stops Pista's rebellion and she plants herself in place. I'm extremely grateful, as my horsemanship is newly remembered and far from perfect.

The rider walks towards us slowly, the stallion's head jerking as he fights for control from the man astride him. The man mumbles a warning while doing something with his feet, and his horse quiets. Mine hasn't moved so neither have I. Within moments they are next to us, entirely too close for comfort. My Pista, the slut, is sending out flirty puffs towards the stallion. He seems to be returning the interest. Well at least one of us is enjoying ourselves.

While the horses are getting acquainted, the man dismounts. He's dressed entirely in black, the cold glint of the gun in his hand entirely too visible in the waning light. Its dark barrel is pointed straight at my chest.

"Dismount," he growls.

I do, and with amazing luck, I do not fall flat on my face or my ass. I turn to the man, swearing I will not succumb to the fear I feel. I'm staring into the darkness, hoping I look bitchy and defiant when he grabs me and kisses me, hard.

His tongue is deep in my mouth before I can even fathom a protest. There's a flaring of something inside me. The twinges of desire I felt before with Mr. Grissom are nothing compared to my response to this man. I feel the fabric rubbing against my face; he's wearing some sort of hood or mask. It doesn't take long before I realize who exactly is kissing me.

I am not impressed and push away from him. I hear his chuckle and it rankles. So I do what any proper lady should do - I slap him, hard. He catches my hand, pulling me back towards him.

"Fiesty, aren't we Sara?" His voice is deep, a rumble in the night. I glare at him and snit, "Shouldn't I be?"

I take a deep breath, fuel for the storm I'm going to rage at him. "What the hell gives you the right to ride out here and scare the bejeezus out of me and my horse! Who the hell do you think you are?"

He laughs at me. "You don't recognize me? Pity, because I know you. Quite well."

The innuendo is clear and I struggle to slap him again. "I don't know what the hell happened between you and me before, but I can assure you, it isn't going to be happening again!"

More laughter. I'm getting seriously annoyed. I rip my arm from his grip and head towards Pista. To my dismay, Pista seems to have trotted off towards the barn, his stallion at her side. Lovely.

"Seems like you've lost your mount," he says, standing behind me watching our horses disappear off into the distance.

"You lost yours too."

"I've got something else you can ride," he murmurs in my ear.

"Look," I snap, pointing my finger into his face, "I don't know who you are, well, okay, I do… but I have no idea what happened prior to three days ago and I don't rightly care if you saved me or not, because… because… oh, just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

"And you think that's going to work with El Vaquero de la Noche? 'Leave me alone?' I'm the man who ravages women and steals honest men's claims and murders Union doctors, aren't I?"

I step away from him, now very alert and more than a little scared. He knows what the Sara before me thought of him.

"Yes I know your opinions of me, beautiful. I also couldn't get within ten feet of you prior to your accident, so you'll have to forgive me for taking liberties with you just now. I knew that you'd be caught unawares out here. I couldn't resist the opportunity."

I just stare at him in shock. I've been had. I feel like I betrayed Sara, but… I'm Sara. My head starts to throb again. Great. And what's with the sexual stuff? I haven't felt this … aroused by the advances of man since… well, since I don't know when. This is now two men, in almost as many days. What's with that?

He stares back at me, not the least bit ashamed of what's happened between us. The urge to pummel him is overwhelming. No wonder Sara hated this guy. He's a pompous ass.

"You're a pompous ass."

I hear the smile in his voice. "I've been called worse."

I start walking towards the barn. It's dark now; the barn is a blurry smudge mixed between other smudges and dim glows from various windows.

He follows me. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes. I'm going home. If you're going to rape and kill me, you'd might as well do it now and get it out of the way. If not, go find the horse you rode in on and get yourself lost."

He grabs my shoulder, forcing me into his chest. My head spins as he lifts my chin so that I am forced to stare up at him. The darkness makes his face a cold wall of black. I search but I cannot see his eyes. Only shadowy indents where I think they should be.

"I could, you know. Take you here and have my way with you, since you think I'm capable of such crimes."

I blink and my insides grow cold. "Are you the rebel from Tennessee?"

He laughs. "Do I sound like I'm from Tennessee?" He releases my chin but holds my shoulders tight.

"You didn't answer my question," I say with forced courage. "You could be disguising your voice. You might not even have been born in Tennessee."

He growls at me; I'm pissing him off. "You are impossible. Listen well, Sara - I did _not_ murder your brother!" He gives me a little shake as he says this, determined to get through to me.

I turn my head. "I don't know if you did or not. But Sara thought you did, and I have no reason to not believe her. Given your conduct tonight, I have no reason to judge you as anything more than a rogue and a brute." I pause, as he's still holding me. "Are you going to get this over with, or can I go home?"

He's silent. I wonder if I pushed him too far. My tummy flutters, whether it's in fear or anticipation, I'm not quite sure. But he lets me go, whispering quietly. "Go home, Miss Sara." He steps away from me and whistles, a warbling sound that doesn't really have any particular melody. In a few moments, his stallion returns. My Pista is no where to be seen. I've barely a moment to fret for her safety before El Vaquero says, "She's at the barn."

He then places his hand on the small of my back and leads me to his horse. He helps me mount before settling himself behind me. He uses the same riding technique to control his stallion as I did with Pista. We trot towards the barn, the jarring gate slamming me up against his chest. I know he's doing this to get his own jollies, which makes me more and more aggravated. By the time we're close to the barn, I've got a full head of steam brewing.

He dismounts first before offering me a helping hand. He's staying in the shadows, ensuring that I can't get a good look at him. I slap his hand away. "So now you think to treat me like a gentleman? For the record, I do not appreciate being taken advantage of and I can assure you, the next time I step out in public, I will be armed and I will most certainly shoot you where you stand!"

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it…" He yanks me out of the saddle and into his arms. We're kissing again; I can feel myself yielding, allowing his tongue entry into my mouth and enjoying the warmth of his body against mine. He senses this and … stops. Just pulls away from me, leaving me disoriented…. and desperate. Dammit! Damn him and damn me for being so weak-willed. I'm sure the old Sara would have never let this happen. Of course not, she would have brought her gun. There's one sitting neatly in a holster, hanging on a peg in her room. She was smart. Unlike me.

"You sure you're going to shoot me the next time we meet?" he purrs.

"Absolutely," I snarl. Before he can pull any other stunts, I stomp off towards the barn.

Pista is there, standing at the doorway to the stalls like this is no big deal. She snorts and stamps at me, her whole attitude expressing "Well, where have you been?"

I open the doors and she makes her way inside. I turn and see the dust as El Vaquero gallops away. With a sigh I enter the barn, following Pista to the grooming area where she's waiting for me to tend to her. I remove her saddle, blanket and bridle. She's wet, so I get out the soft brush and the curry comb and spend the next half hour brushing her down. Caring for her is therapeutic; I realize I must have done this many times before, as the whole process seems to come to me out of habit.

Once she's calm, I automatically get her some oats and hay, as well as fresh water. Someone, most likely Annie or David, has cleaned her stall while we were gone. Thank heaven for small favors. I owe them.

Once Pista is settled, I make my way back towards the house. The clinic lights are out, but the light in the kitchen is still on. I walk through the kitchen's door and there's Annie, sitting at the table, waiting for me.

"Have a nice ride?" she says. Her tone is a little too light, a little too friendly. I'll bet that Sara was very good at math. Because I just put two and two together in record time.

"Not exactly, Annie. I ran into your hero, El Vaquero. It was a most traumatic experience. He is everything that I thought he was, a rogue and a scoundrel." The half-smile on Annie's face dissolves into a sullen scowl.

"The evening wasn't a total loss, though. I got reacquainted with Pista, and from now on, I'm not leaving this house without my gun."


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _It's time to bring some more CSI characters into the mix and explain their roles in this fic. Don't worry, everyone will get a mention of some sort in due time. I'm pretty geeky like that._

* * *

Annie doesn't speak to me the next morning when I make good on my word. I have no idea how to use the damn thing, but the weight at my side is reassuring, if not a little awkward. I figure I'll get used to it. I'm debating whether to ask David for a refresher course while sipping a cup of seriously strong coffee, when the bell atop the clinic door rings.

I hear the plod of heavy footsteps echo in the corridor linking the clinic to our living quarters. Greg Sanders appears in the kitchen doorway, much to my surprise. Almost as an afterthought, he removes his hat, revealing some seriously wild hair. I try to hide my amusement, but it's difficult. He looks like a porcupine.

"Ready, Sara?"

"Um… ready for what?"

His expression falls and he lets out a small sigh. I feel a little guilty for not remembering why he is here, but really, it isn't my fault I have amnesia. The impatient side of Greg can be rather irritating.

"We're going to help with some of the setup for the Festival. Cat, uh… Miss Catherine needs our help at the saloon. We're on the Decorations Committee."

Oh boy. Committees. The old Sara should have known better. Still, I'm not one to shirk my responsibilities.

"Let me finish my coffee and we'll go." I pause and suddenly remember my manners. "Would you like to sit down and have a cup?"

Greg smiles wide but declines the coffee. I slurp down the remains of my cup, its bitterness flaring my taste buds. Next time I will pass on Doc's special blend and stick to Annie's tea. Well, assuming she offers it to me again.

Greg and I meet the day, and it greets us pleasantly. The breeze is cool, the sky a reflective gemstone of blue, and the streets are relatively quiet. We walk in a comfortable silence to the Silver Pole, but that silence is broken by the sound of glass shattering. It comes from the saloon.

"What the hell?"

Greg looks at me strangely, and I realize I'd better watch my tongue. It isn't proper for ladies to use foul language – Annie's told me that enough already.

When we enter the saloon through the honest-to-god shutter-style doors, a mumbled cursing is coming from behind the bar. I look avidly for the silver pole, but there is none. Well, that's disappointing. The source of the cursing pops his head up a few moments later, and if his skin were light, he'd be as red as a lobster in embarrassment. Instead, it just darkens a bit from its normal coffee color.

"Warrick, what did you do?" Greg makes his way over to the bar quickly, and I follow while studying this Warrick.

He's clean shaven and scowling slightly at Greg. His hair is trimmed short to his head and his attire places him as the saloon's bartender. He turns towards me and I'm pleasantly surprised when the cautious green eyes of a cat begin to study me. Green is not a common eye color, and I doubt I've seen it before in a black man. It suits him, as he carries himself with a dignified yet aloof manner.

I find myself smiling at him, subconsciously pleased to see him, and I wonder if he and I are on good terms.

It seems not when he addresses me in a cordial but not quite friendly tone. "Good day, Miss Sara."

"Hello," I reply cautiously.

Greg plops himself onto a stool at the bar and leans close to Warrick, whispering something to him in a voice that's too low for me to hear. But I'm guessing he's bringing Warrick up to speed on my condition.

Warrick jerks his head up and studies me again, with a somewhat disturbing intensity. I smile and wiggle my fingers at him in a little wave.

"Yeah," I say. "I have no idea who you are."

This time he smiles, the white of his teeth startling against the darkness of his skin.

"So…" he drawls, "you do not remember our last conversation."

"Nope. But I'm sorry if I said something irrational or offensive. I'm learning I used to be very opinionated."

He laughs loudly at this, while Greg just watches our interaction in befuddlement.

"Yes," Warrick says, "you are quite the opinionated lady. But that's neither here or there. I am glad to see that you are out and about after your ordeal. Miss Catherine is expecting you both and there is much work to be done."

He turns and speaks to Greg directly. "She's in the back room, sorting through the shelves and bags, looking for decorations. Good luck."

Greg replies with a look and leads me through a doorway into the back of the saloon. I hear muffled cursing again, but this time, it's a feminine voice uttering the expletives.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

Greg's expression is sheepish. I give him a satisfied smirk. I'm not the only woman in town with a colorful vocabulary. We walk into the back room, where the first thing I notice is the full ruffles and crinoline of Catherine's yellow dress. Her ass is high in the air; her head is low, buried in a large burlap sack. Decorations are strewn around her, along with pots and pans, rolls of fabric, and various other items that my mind views as 'miscellaneous stuff'. The 'stuff' is everywhere.

"God Dammit!" Catherine hoists her upper half out of the sack and turns to face us. "I can't find the damned ornamental lights anywhere. I could have sworn I packed them away, but now they've disappeared." She blinks for a second, realizing that she isn't exactly alone. "Oh, hello Greg. Hello Sara. Good to see you among the living." She barely takes a breath before saying, "Would you mind helping me find the ornamental lights? There are four of them, and I'm sure I packed them together."

Catherine is not what I expected. I study her while she directs us to search here and there. She isn't exactly friendly towards me, but I wonder if I should chalk that up to stress. I don't remember her, but I would think we would be friends. There aren't that many women like us in this town.

The three of us spend the next hour sorting through every nook and cranny of that room. It's some type of supply closet, only much bigger and with many more shelves and hidey-holes. We do find the lantern-type things she was looking for. But they need wicks, so we spent another fifteen minutes putting the various clutter back into shelves to clear away enough space to get to the wicks.

Once that is done, I am handed ribbons. Scarlet and silver ribbons; the colors of the town, it seems. I proceed to decorate every lamp, railing, and doorknob… every anything that could have a ribbon tied around it. I do the entire saloon. It really does a lot for the place. Very festive.

I am alone for most of the time it takes me to decorate. Greg had been assigned chair duty out back, and Warrick went to help him once he'd straightened out all the new glasses for the bar. He didn't feel it was prudent to mention his mishap with the one set of glasses when Catherine came to check on his progress. I found that rather amusing.

When I am finally finished, I decide to wander out back to check on Greg. Once I'm there, I am surprised by what I see. He and Warrick had finished most of the setup for the cook-out. Tables, benches and chairs from the saloon are lined up in nice, neat rows. Many, many rows. Catherine is in the process of determining where the American flag should go, and from Warrick's expression, it looks like she's been at it for a while.

"Yes! Right there…. No… wait… maybe over there. No, no. That's not right. Put it back over there."

There are more people helping besides me and Greg. Their faces are familiar, but I can't recall any names. They are setting up games, roping off various areas, and a few very burly-looking men are in the process of constructing a platform that I assume will be the dance floor.

It seems like this will be quite an event after all. I have to give Catherine some credit; she's got full control over the entire thing.

"Is there anything else you need," I ask her once she's done with the flag.

She thinks for a moment before saying, "I could use some help in the kitchen. Do you remember how to peel potatoes?"

I shrug. "How hard could it be?"

I eat those words once I actually see what Catherine wants. There are two fifty-pound sacks of potatoes, and she wants every potato peeled and quartered. I am to throw each potato into a large pot filled with salt water. Tomorrow the potatoes will be boiled, but tonight they need to soak to absorb the salt. I start peeling, while Catherine hauls out some flour and a white block I identify as lard, and starts making pie crusts.

It takes quite some time to peel a hundred pounds of potatoes, let me tell you. Catherine finishes her pies way before I'm done; they are happily baking and she's back outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with sweat dripping down my brow. The open windows do nothing to alleviate the heat in the room. What happened to my beautiful day?

I wipe the side of my face for the umpteenth time, cursing the heat and Catherine and life in general. I smell nothing but potatoes and cinnamon and apples. My stomach growls at the thought of fresh apple pie. I sigh as I pick up another potato to peel. This sucks.

"Good day, Miss Sidle."

The voice shocks me out of the peeling trance I was in, and I jump a little in surprise. The knife slips, cutting my hand right across the pad of my thumb.

"Ow!"

Mr. Grissom hurries to my side, lifting my hand gently to examine the cut. I'm sure I look terrible, my hair must be a fright, and I'm drenched in sweat. But none of that crosses my mind as I'm again captured by his gaze. My head starts to throb and I blink the pain away.

"It's nothing," I say, once I've cleared my head. "I'll be fine."

"Honey, this doesn't look good. Let me get someone to help you."

"No," I snap, surprising myself. "I'm all right. See?"

I lift the damp cloth he placed there and the wound is barely visible. "Just a little nick. I'll be fine. You, uh… you startled me."

"Oh."

We both stand there awkwardly. The last time I saw him, I fainted. This time, I almost sliced my hand open. Being around him seems to be hazardous to my health.

"I came to drop off Catherine's order," he tells me. As if I know anything about it or what Catherine would want. I stare dumbly at him when Catherine herself walks back in to the kitchen.

"Hey Sara," she says as she's walking through the doorway, "would you check on the pies for me?" She notices Mr. Grissom and smiles broadly at him. "Gil! Good to see you. Are those my plates?"

"Yes Cath. They arrived today on the early morning train. I picked them up for you - I figured you'd want to see them right away." She raises an eyebrow at him and he says, "Greg's minding the store."

"Better say a prayer that no one visits while you are gone. He gives stuff away, particularly to the ladies, and he'll run that store right into the ground."

"He's not that bad, Cath. You're just bitter about last month." Mr. Grissom is smiling at her, and I feel like such a fifth wheel. Are these two an item? They are certainly friendly, that's for sure.

"That was my best dress he ruined! My best dress!"

He chuckles at her. "You should have known better and taken it to Jacqui. She's the seamstress."

She chuckles back. "True." Catherine then realizes that I'm still in the room. "So," she asks me, "how's it coming? Almost done yet?" She doesn't really wait for my answer before walking towards the cast iron stove at the other end of the kitchen. I am almost offended before I realize she's checking on her pies.

"I've got about fifteen left," I tell her, the white dish cloth Mr. Grissom used to stop the bleeding hanging limply from my hand.

"Doing dishes as well?" Her tone is slightly condescending, solidifying my theory that she and I are not on the best of terms. I should have known from the start. No friend would make me peel all these potatoes by myself.

"No, I … cut myself."

This causes her to snigger, and causes me to scowl. I can tell she's ready to chide me about it when Mr. Grissom cuts her off.

"I startled her. That's how she cut her hand." he says in a serious tone.

Catherine blinks at him. "You did what?"

"I'm afraid I gave her quite the scare. It was when I was bringing in your plates." He points at the crates on the floor and there are quite a few there. What kind of daze was I in that I missed that? And why didn't he say something when he first walked in?

His tone is serious. "Don't tease her for something that wasn't her fault."

"Oh," she says, mollified. He then looks at me with a cute little grin on his face, like we just shared some inside joke. Huh?

"I'd better leave you ladies to your chores. Duty calls." He turns and is gone before I can even recover from what happened.

Catherine seems rather docile after that, taking out the pies and leaving them by the window to cool.

"They smell delicious," I tell her, trying to establish some sort of peace between us.

"They're for the bake-off tomorrow. I took second last year and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose again this year."

"Who's your competition?" I ask.

She smirks at me. "Your little doting auntie. Mrs. Ann Louise Robbins."


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** _This is a relatively short chapter; technically it belongs with the previous one but that would have made it entirely too long. Just moving the plot along in this part. Nothing very exciting... sorry about that! I promise better chapters are in the future. _

* * *

When I return home - or should I say, when I'm escorted by Greg to my home after removing most of the grime from my fingernails in Catherine's own ornate bathroom, using her most-certainly prized fancy soaps - I make my way to the kitchen. Sure enough, Annie is there, slicing green and red apples and humming quietly to herself. 

"Hello," I say hesitantly.

"Hello Sara." She doesn't look up from her task, the knife hammering against the wooden cutting board with a 'thunk' each time she slices.

"I met Catherine today."

"What did you think?" Her tone is neutral, unbiased. Annie is never unbiased.

"Most likely the same thing you do, that she's a flamboyant bitch."

Annie puts down her knife. "You know I don't like you using that foul language in my presence." She turns towards me. "But in the case, I think it is appropriate."

Her smile has returned and I walk towards her. "I'm sorry about last night," I say.

"I'm sorry I tried to force you to speak with him. I just thought…"

"I know. That if I didn't remember… I might see him the way you do."

She sighs, deflating her usually bubbly demeanor. "He's a good man, Sara. I wish you felt that way."

"Well I don't, but let's not dwell on it, hmm? I have better news for you. I watched Catherine as she made her pies today."

Annie's eyes take on a hungry glint. "You did?"

"Yes. I did."

"And?"

"They're apple, they smelled delicious, but I want you to kick her ass tomorrow at the bake-off. Can you do that?"

"Actually, if you would like to help me, we can enter the pies in our names and we'll both kick her trampy ass."

I smile and pick up the wooden bowl. "Where do I start?"

Annie and I bake like fiends long into the night. She shows me how to make the crust, keeping the lard lumpy and not mixing it all the way in like Catherine did.  
"Makes it flake," she says.

By the time we finish, it's well after dark and Annie and I are on good terms. She's at least twenty years older than me, but it's like she's become a friend. It's her idea to go bathe out by the creek.

"No one will be there," she whispers to me, not wanting to wake Al or David up. "You should see yourself. Do you want to look like a mess for the Festival tomorrow?"

"What about you? You look like you were rolled in flour and then dipped in cinnamon. It's amazing that Al doesn't think you're dessert."

"Well dearie," she drawls at me slyly, "sometimes he does."

"Annie! Christ! Too much information."

She whallops me on my ass with her wooden spoon, apple bits still stuck to it. "Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain, missy!"

I blink at the apple stuck to my dress and we both start giggling. "We're over-tired," I say. "We're getting giddy."

"All the more reason to freshen up in the creek. Go find yourself a robe and let's go!" She disappears from the kitchen, heading towards her bedroom.

I sigh and go to mine. I do need a bath; I'm just not keen about sharing it with a sixty-something woman in the middle of the night.

I shouldn't have worried, Annie takes me to one secluded area and hands me a bar of soap wrapped in paper. "So you can be your best for tomorrow." I can tell it's fancier than Catherine's rose-shaped ornate ones; this is most likely a very expensive little bar of soap.

"Annie…"

"Nope. No worries. I have one too." She waves it at me with a smile. "Tomorrow only happens once a year, you know! You clean up and use that comb I gave you to work out your hair. I'll be up over there by the big oak. Holler if you need anything."

I watch her disappear into the night. I unwrap the soap and inhale its light scent. I don't know what it is, but it's lightly feminine without being overly perfume-y. It's perfect.

I do a quick look-around before hanging my robe, my towel and my gun on a low tree branch. The water is cool when I enter, but not overly cold. I spend a good fifteen minutes soaping my hair and combing it out. Bubbles trail off my body and head downstream towards Annie. I can hear her humming to herself, a faint melody on the night air. I laugh and continue my bath.

I'm almost through and coming up from dunking my head when I hear the faint snap of a twig on the ground. Startled, I freeze and scan the banks. On the opposite side, I see the faint movement of something and I call out to Annie.

A man clad only in a loincloth rises from behind the low-lying shrubs and scampers off into the woods. I scream and bolt from the water. I'm wrapped in my towel, holding my gun and shivering when Annie breaks through the darkness.

"What is it?"

"There… was a man over there," I say, pointing with the gun's barrel. "It was an Indian! He was spying on us!"

Annie laughs. "Well, maybe not on me." She looks at me, still drenched and feeling like a drowned rat. "I'm sure he got an eyeful though!"

"Annie!" I yelp, horrified.

"He's probably a teenager, just getting his jollies. He's far from home, but hey – stranger things have happened. I'll let Sheriff Brass know about it tomorrow, okay? Now put that away."

I nod and do as she says, still feeling rather disturbed and violated.

"No harm done." She winks bawdily at me. "You probably gave him quite the show."

"Annie! Aren't you the one that's always on my ass about being 'proper' and 'ladylike'?" I put on my robe and wrap the towel around my still-soaked hair. She gathers her things and we start on our way back home. The night is still as crystal clear as before, the moon almost full in the sky.

"Well sure," she finally responds, "but that's because you need to find yourself a nice man and settle down." Her voice lowers. "I just want what's best for you, dear."

"Being married is what's best for me?"

"You bet." Her voice is full of authority. "You need the right man to tame your sassy behind. You're just like your Pista – full of wildfire."

The thought of Pista and how El Vaquero had calmed her quickly comes to mind. Then the realization that Annie planned that encounter comes to mind as well.

"Oh no," I say, not angry but not quite pleased either. "You can't possibly think him… you couldn't. Tell me you didn't play matchmaker last night!"

She doesn't respond to that. Instead she plays philosopher and says, "I see your accident as a gift from God. Your mind is clear, perhaps for the first time since you've come here."

We're back at the house before she speaks again. "You need a man who will be your equal, not one you can lead around like a puppy." She means Greg.

"He's very fond of me," I say quietly as she opens the back door.

"Yes, but are you fond of him? Does he make your heart pound and your knees weak and your head spin?"

There are two men that make my head spin, and I'm not about to tell her who one is. The other definitely flares off something within me, but seems to change his demeanor like a chameleon.

Still, she's not wrong. Thoughts of Greg do not turn my legs into jelly. I twist the conversation towards her. "What about you? Does Al make your blood pound and your legs tremble?"

She's standing at her bedroom door, the soft sounds of snoring coming from behind it. I give her a 'you've-gotta-be-kidding' look as she reaches for the doorknob.

"Honey," she says, "in his younger days, my man could light my fires quicker than Dante's Inferno. In fact, he still does. Why, the things he does with his tongue…"

Holy crap! I turn and sprint towards the stairs and rush towards my bedroom. I've heard enough. Annie's quiet laughter echoes throughout the sleeping house until I hear her close her door.

I lay in bed, trying to picture Annie and Al as a younger couple. My mind blanks and I shake the thoughts from my mind. It's just too damn scary for me to even comprehend.

Right before I drift off, I realize I learned something useful today. Mr. Grissom's first name is Gil.


	7. Chapter 6

_Much love for Cybrokat and dreamsofhim for their help with this chapter. I, of course, tweaked it - so any mistakes are mine and mine alone. I had a lot of fun writing this one too, and next week's chapter is going to be a hoot. Everyone say "hello" to Nick and Brass, as they've finally made their way into this fic. And thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! Knowing that folks enjoy this story makes my day. See you next Wednesday! _

* * *

Saturday dawns hot and still. No breeze stirs the dust from the roads; no clouds dot the early morning sky. Annie is at work in the kitchen when I make my way down the stairs. I join her, studying our handiwork from the night before in the process. We made some seriously good-looking pies. That competitive spirit flares in me. Damn. I'll be disappointed if we don't win today! 

Breakfast is nothing special, but anticipation lingers between each bite. David is particularly eager to start the day, shoveling in potatoes and eggs as if his life depended on it. Doc is less spirited, but his eyes twinkle in the early morning light. Annie is flitting from task to task; a human bumblebee. Their mood is infectious and I fidget with a linen towel while I wait for Doc to finish his last cup of coffee.

Finally, he is done and I gather up the last remains of the breakfast mess. As I am drying the last plate, Annie scurries off to get dressed. David and Doc are huddled over the wash basin, shaving and studying their chins as if a missed whisker would end the world. I laugh quietly to myself as I pass them on my way upstairs.

I spend more time than I'd like searching through my makeshift wardrobe for a suitable dress. Simple pine boxes are not the best clothing organizers. One box stacked at the bottom of the others contains two dresses, both wrapped in tissue paper. Both are elegant, suitable for fine and luxurious occasions. I am laying them on my bed for better inspection when Annie pounds her way upstairs.

"Hmm…" she says, leaning against my doorway. "I didn't know you had those."

I smile. "I didn't either. Which one?"

"Neither. They're both too dark for being outside in the sun all day. Wear the light sundress with the blue ribbons."

I hadn't seen that one in my search. My silence is enough for Annie to realize I have no idea what she's talking about. She retrieves one of the other boxes and pulls out the sundress. It's a little feminine for my tastes, but at this point in time I'm not inclined to be picky.

My reflection in the full length mirror is not exactly promising. My hair needs serious help. Annie had left me to change in private, but she knocks lightly on the door just at the point where I'm debating whether to cover my head with the largest hat I can find, or just shave myself bald.

"Come in," I say. "I need help."

She chuckles. "Yes, you do… which is why I'm here." She's holding blue ribbons in her hand; ribbons that match my dress.

"No pigtails!" I yelp as she gently moves the fancier dresses sprawled on my bed to the side and sits down. I settle myself next to her, slightly nervous. I really should learn to relax; her ministrations are gentle and somewhat therapeutic. When she's done, we both study her work in the mirror.

I look… well, pretty. Feminine but not overly so. She's woven the ribbons through my hair in a pleated fashion, so that the various sections gather in a loose ponytail at the base of my neck.

"Be careful when you take off your hat," she chides. "You'll pull the whole thing out."

I'm feeling all giddy as I turn slowly to study myself. It hits me then how very considerate Annie has been, and how I haven't exactly been appreciative of her efforts. Annie lost her two sons in the war; she and Al traveled west over ten years ago, right after an unfriendly Union officer delivered the news of their youngest son's death. Despite their extreme dislike of war and all things related to it, they still took me in as a boarder when I arrived in town. To me, that says something.

I remember nothing of my own mother, of my own family. What are they like? Is my mother still alive? What about my father? I look at Annie and realize that although she may not be my own flesh and blood, she and Al and David are as close to a surrogate family as I'm likely to find. The thought warms me completely. They're here for me.

I turn to her. "Thank you," I say. "Thank you so much. For everything." I'm getting all teary and she's getting all teary; we wind up hugging and sobbing in such a girl moment that it makes me want to cry all the more. I doubt that I've ever done such a thing like this before.

We get it together after a while. "I'm sorry if I was well… bitchy," I tell her.

"Oh honey, it's all right." Something in her tone says that it isn't, or wasn't, all that right at all. I'll bet the Sara before me wasn't that polite to Annie and I know I haven't been much better. At least not until our little adventure yesterday.

I decide then that things will change between us. "No, it's not, but it will be. Starting today, okay?"

She grins, one of those kind, motherly-like grins. One full of joy and pride and happiness, making me feel all mushy inside. What is it about special occasions that cause people to get this way?

"Let's go," I say, not giving her a chance to reply. "We've got places to be."

"Right, right," she replies, regaining her composure. We walk down the stairs together, meeting up with a soft-eyed Al and an impatient David, each holding a pie. Annie and I take the last two and we're off to the fair!

Well, festival. Whatever.

oooooooooooo

We arrive at the Silver Pole Saloon in what seems like no time at all. As we make our way through the shutter doors, I scan the interior, checking that my decorative efforts from the day before were not in vain.

"Nice work," Annie murmurs in my left ear.

"Hey," I shrug, grinning. "I try."

Then again, it's tough for your decorations to get messed up when there aren't any people around to destroy them. We walk through the main saloon and head towards the kitchen. A small hand-painted sign points us to the back door. Sand and scuffmarks identify the way a bit better; we are definitely not the first to arrive.

The area behind the saloon is not quite swamped to capacity, but there is a sizable, and noisy, crowd. A couple of makeshift tents are set up along the back wall of the saloon and out to the side, forming an L-shaped area where folks can sit. Many are doing so, chatting and keeping out of the increasing intensity of the mid-morning sun.

Simple twine marks off areas where various games are being held. The clang of horseshoes against metal mixes with the laughter of children participating in a sack race.

I follow Annie over to the far end of the tents where a few tables have been placed for the various entries of the bake-off. David and Al break away from us, heading towards the horseshoes. A quiet young woman is sitting at the far table, looking very diligent as she tracks each submission into each category on her writing tablet. I don't know her name, but she's familiar, and seeing her behind a table logging things into a ledger is also familiar.

She smiles as Annie informs her of our entries, nodding politely in dismissal while making a few marks on her tablet. I can see that our names, plus the names of many others are already written there. That listing, plus the display of pies and cakes on the tables next to me means that we're in for some heavy competition today. I do like how someone thought to keep pies covered with a type of thin cheesecloth to protect them from bugs or whatever else might damage them. Pretty clever.

As we're turning away, two men rise from their seats in the shade and approach me. I smile brightly once I can see them clearly. Finally, people I actually recognize and can name!

"Brass!" I say, a little overeagerly as I step towards them, leaving Annie to fend for herself. That is probably best, as Annie was making her way towards Catherine. Given the soreness of my hands today, Catherine is someone I'm not eager to meet with just yet. "And the infamous Nick Stokes," my voice slightly chiding. "How are you?"

They are full of smiles, although my outburst makes Brass's smile somewhat awkward.

"Ya remember us!" Nick cries. "Does this mean yer recovered?"

"No, not quite," I stammer. The heavy Texas twang he's using throws me a bit, just like Doc Robbins' crutches did. It clashes with my memory harshly, causing a now-familiar stab behind my eyes. Yet the pain fades quickly this time, for which I am grateful. Mr. Grissom's medicines must be working. "But I do remember both of you. I suppose that is a good thing, right?"

"Sheriff Jim Brass and Deputy Stokes, at your service, madame," Brass says to me, his eyes gentle and kind, just as I remember. There is an emphasis on the words "sheriff" and "deputy," making me realize my faux pas. I did not address either of them with their formal titles.

"It is good to see you both," I say. And it is. My head isn't throbbing nearly as hard as it did when I first saw Mr. Grissom. Also, the black hole of nothingness that exists when I meet most other people isn't there for these two. I can only assume that Sara knew these men well. They must all be good friends.

But Greg was…well…is my friend, too, so why didn't I recognize him?

"It is good to see you too," Brass says warmly. "It's nice that you are out among us again. We were both very worried about you." Brass pats Nick on the shoulder in a friendly gesture to include him in the conversation, but Nick is looking the other way at something behind me.

An instant later he is at my side. "Is everything okay, Miss Sara?" His voice is full of twang and concern, but I can't fathom what the concern is for. The pain from before has left me; I actually feel quite fine.

"Yes, I'm okay, Nick," I say. "I'm fine." I shake my head slightly; a futile effort to remove some of the stray cobwebs from my memory. Nothing happens. I feel exactly the same.

"I don't think so," Brass grumbles, his attention not quite focused on me either. "Why don't you come over here and rest yourself for a bit."

I scowl slightly as I succumb to being led by both men, each clasping an elbow as they shuffle me to the far side of the tents. What is all the fuss about? Am I really that out of it again? Dammit, I feel fine!

Once I'm seated, I look back in the direction from where we'd just come. A tall thin man dressed entirely in black is making his way towards a few of the women who had just dropped off their own bake-off entries. He's standing about three feet from where we just were. My first impression of the man makes me think of a weasel, but that can't possibly be right, because I study him again and don't recognize him at all.

Brass is still standing but Nick has settled himself in the chair next to me and is scooting it across the sand to block my view of the Weasel Man. His actions are clumsy and rushed. They are hiding me.

"Okay, what's the deal?" I look first at Brass and then at Nick. Both blink and try not to look sheepish. "I may not have recovered all my faculties just yet, but I'm not blind by any means. Why are you hiding me from that man?"

My voice rises as I point to the weasely man in black and both men fight the urge to grab my hand and shush me quiet. Their expressions are frantic. "Miss Sara," Brash whispers harshly, "it is best if you do not associate with Mr. Ecklie today."

"Trust us," Nick says. "Y'ain't ready to deal with him in yer condition."

"I don't remember him," I say flatly, dropping my head in my now-common amnesia shame. "Who is he?"

Brass moves his head from side to side, a middle-of-the-road type of gesture. "Technically, he's responsible for the Nelson Bank and Trust. A banker. But he comes from a long line of old and powerful money and his name can usually be found in association with a lot of the dealings of the mine."

"He's a liar an' a crook," Nick says sharply. "He manipulates honest folk – steals from their claims an' their homes! He leaves them hangin' high 'n dry, while he just sits back in his makeshift mansion an' lives the good life, puffin' on his fancy-pants cigars and countin' his riches. He's just lucky we haven't collected enough evidence to lock his ass in jail!"

This time Brass's shushing expression is directed at Nick, and it is a lot fiercer than the one I received. Nick glares back and I sense that the law's problems with Mr. Ecklie are long-standing and Nick's outbursts on the man's character are also not uncommon.

"So, he's not a nice guy." My words break the stalemate between the two, just as I'd hoped. "What does that have to do with me?"

Brass grabs another chair and pulls it close to me. Once he's seated, he looks at Nick, who nods in reply. His voice is very low when he faces me directly, "We found footprints in the dirt at the place where you were…injured. We are assuming those footprints belong to both El Vaquero and your attacker. What no one else knows, and you must not tell them, is that we found something else there as well. A small tie-clip, one that matches a clip commonly worn by Mr. Ecklie."

Nick continues, trying to whisper but failing miserably. "This means Mr. Ecklie was there at the scene of yer attack."

"But that doesn't mean he was your attacker," Brass shoots back. "It just places him at the scene."

The thunderstorm is returning to my brain and I'm fighting to keep it at bay. "So… wait. Does that mean that Mr. Ecklie is El Vaquero?"

"Either that or he tried to kill ya!" Nick growls. "Now do ya see why ya need t'stay out of his way?"

"You need to tell her all of it." Brass's face is firm as he turns back to me. "It is possible that they are one and the same."

No. Brass must be wrong. That Weasel Man is the same man who kissed me like no other a few nights before? And that same man tried to kill me? That can't be true. It just can't be. My night ride with El Vaquero might not have been one of my finer moments, but it did prove to me that El Vaquero was not the man who hurt me. He obviously has other ideas in mind for me, the pompous ass.

Brass notices my scowl but misinterprets its meaning. "From our point of view Miss Sara, El Vaquero is no hero. There are a lot of folks who say he raided their claims or harmed their families. Lots of folks report items missing from their homes. It's clear to us that someone broke in at night and stole their valuables. El Vaquero moves like the wind; we can't catch him and believe me, it isn't like we've tried."

"I know ya think he saved you and I'm sure yer grateful for that. But we just want ya to be safe," Nick says as he lays a gentle hand on my arm.

Clearly they aren't aware of my quest to find my brother's killer. It's odd that the Sara before me neglected to tell the local law enforcement about her reasons for being here. Why wouldn't she tell them? Wouldn't that be the first thing she'd do? Solicit their help to catch the ruthless El Vaquero? They seem perfectly decent and capable to me - and she obviously knew them well, because I remember them.

The storms in my mind are still turbulent as I digest what they've said. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Mr. Ecklie bids farewell to the group of ladies he was with. They look disappointed to see him go. He makes his way over to the ring toss arena and then to where the sack races have now turned into relay races. He leaves my line of sight when he walks past the wooden barrel marking the finish line.

He can't be the same man I kissed that night. I need to speak with him, despite Brass and Nick's warnings. I need to know.

I stand and bid the sheriff and his deputy good day. They seem hesitant to let me leave, but I think they realize they can't babysit me forever. I spot Annie deep in conversation with a group of other women, none of whom I recognize. Greg is with David; both are helping set up what looks like a fire pit near the wooden platform of the dance floor. Not the smartest place for a fire, but what do I know? Doc Robbins is nowhere to be seen, I can only assume he's inside with the also-absent Catherine and Warrick.

I walk to the relay races, hoping to pick up on Mr. Ecklie's trail. I've got my gun, hidden beneath my dress of course, as Annie would have freaked if I'd worn it where it could be seen. Still, I have it and I can handle myself, right? Besides, I've dealt with El Vaquero before. If this man is him, I am pretty sure he won't hurt me.

The twittering rumble in the back of my mind is evidence that I'm not quite convinced of my own safety, but I disregard that as I make my way beyond the festival's activities.

I'm walking past an alleyway between the saloon and another building when a flash of black crosses my vision. A strong hand covers my mouth while a stronger arm yanks me into a doorway in the shadows of the saloon.

"Don't move," a painfully familiar voice murmurs into my ear. "Don't move and don't make a sound or you'll get us both killed."


	8. Chapter 7

_Many thanks to dreamsofhim and Cybrokat for their beta skills and feedback. A big thanks goes out to jenbachand for her expertise in baking, as well as pointing me to a lovely website full of spanish cursewords and phrases. I bookmarked that bad boy!_

_I hope you all enjoy this chapter! See you next Wednesday!_

* * *

His breath traces wisps of heat along my neck. My pulse pounds in rapid staccato, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Every instinct is crying out for me to react, to scream, to fight the grip that holds me. Well, almost every instinct. One is rather pleased with this arrangement, and enjoys inhaling the masculine scent of El Vaquero. 

Despite my internal chaos, his words have branded themselves into my brain. I must stay still.

"I won't hurt you," he murmurs lightly, tickling the sensitive skin along my ear. "But we need to hide. Now."

I let him guide me backwards into the darkened hallway leading into the saloon. We're in the storage entrance where many cartons of food and a surprising number of crates of liquor are intermingled around us on the dust-covered floors. We are pressed flat against the far wall, hiding in the dark corner near the door to the kitchen. The sun casts a slanted beam before us, illuminating miniscule particles in the air. I watch them drift and sparkle in the light; it seems to be all my mind can process.

I can feel his heart, the dull thud-thud defining his own fear. It's when a shadow disrupts the beam of light that I learn why he yanked me from the alley.

"Conrad? You back here?" The voice is low, heavily accented.

"Yes," a higher voice whispers, barely audible. There's the sound of footsteps shuffling in the dirt and another shadow joins the first to linger in the doorway.

"Where's Peddigrew?" the accent asks.

"Late," says Conrad, the voice clearer now that he's closer. "I really should do something about him."

"Sorry," cries a third voice as its source approaches, casting yet another muddled shadow. "I was talking with Mr. Hodges about the …" The click of a revolver silences him and makes my heart leap into my throat. El Vaquero is tense behind me, waiting … for I don't know what.

"Consider this a warning. You do as I say, or you do nothing at all. Are we clear?"

"Y-yessir," stammers the third. "S-ssorry sir."

"Now, bring me up to speed on my profits."

"Sir. Yes sir." His voice lowers and I strain to hear him. "The claims from three nights ago have brought in over $600 in pure, another $300 in mixed. The claims from last week have about $400 more, and the rest have been picked dry. Totals so far for the month are around $1500, give or take a few pennies here and there."

"Good. Document it all in my private ledger in the safe and then destroy any evidence. And make sure the monthly reports sent back east show a slight increase in expenses as well as an increase in deposits. You excel at that type of work, my boy – and I expect nothing but your best in hiding our activities from the authorities. We want the big guns back home thinking we're running along just as fine as can be."

"Yessir."

"Now Mr. Vartann, we need to discuss using your resources again. The raid you organized bought us some time and earned us some valuable claims, but there are still entirely too many independents down at Eldorado. We need them out and we need them out soon. Once they find the vein down on the south end, they'll realize how much gold is truly there and they'll dig it dry."

The high voice is serious with its authority. "We cannot let that happen. That vein and its profits belong to me, is that clear?"

"Yessir," they reply in stereo.

"Vartann, use your Indian friends in whatever way necessary to get those men away from the south end. And while you're at it, ask them why the hell that Sidle woman is still alive and walking around my town." There's a growl at the end of his words, sending a chill right down my spine.

"She is?" Vartann says in surprise. "I sent them out last night to take care of her. Just like you requested."

That chill turns downright frigid.

"Well, they failed because she's alive and well; she's currently being babysat by the sheriff and his dimwit deputy. You won't be able to get to her today. But let me be clear, I want her in the ground within the week. If she's not, it'll be you that takes her place."

"What does she matter anyway?" Peddigrew interjects. "She can't remember anything; everyone is talking about it. Amnesia. They say she's lost half her mind and she'll never be fit for more than routine work at the clinic. That the Robbins are going to be stuck with her."

I stiffen at his words and El Vaquero's grip on me tightens.

"How's that your problem, Hank?" Vartann growls.

"It isn't, but before Mr. Ecklie clonked her, she wasn't half bad. She's a looker and she's got nowhere to go and nothing to her name. A man like me might look good to a girl like her."

Conrad chuckles evilly. "A man like you. You're nothing but a bookkeeper who can barely keep a roof over his head and the clothes on his back. Why, you have about as much to offer her as that Grissom does. Which is absolutely nothing at all."

There is a slight tensing, a hint of movement behind me, but I'm not sure if it is just El Vaquero shifting his weight or if he was indeed reacting to Conrad Ecklie's slur of Mr. Grissom. I don't have time to study it as the conversation continues.

"Regardless of your feelings for Miss Sidle, she has seen and ultimately knows entirely too much about our operation." Almost to himself, he says, "I would have finished her if that Vaquero hadn't come along."

"Why didn't you just shoot him?" Hank asks. "The law would have loved you for it."

There are no words, just a dull thwack of a fist against flesh.

"You fool," Vartann hisses. "The last thing we want is the law down in that valley. And I'm sure Mr. Ecklie will repay that _cabrón_. He will pay with his life."

"Yes, I will. And thank you for at least attempting to understand the delicate nature of our situation. At least one of you has half the brain I assumed you had when I hired you. Now go. Secure my gold and do something about that woman!"

The three men disperse, leaving me a shivering mess with El Vaquero as my only support.

"They want to kill me," I whisper. "What did I see down at the mines?" I try to turn towards him, but he takes my head in his hands, holding it still.

"Careful, Miss Sara. No need for you to see things you shouldn't… well, wait a second." One hand rests against my cheek while the other rustles around. Before I can protest, or turn around, a soft cloth is covering my eyes. He's blindfolded me.

"There. That'll keep you innocent."

"I'm not as innocent as you think," I blurt, startling myself. Where did that come from? It must be the stress. Yes, I'm in a state of extreme distress. People are plotting to kill me!

He chuckles, his lips dangerously close to my collarbone. "I'm sure you aren't m'dear. But that should be the least of your worries."

Good point. "They want to kill me. Last night, I saw a man in the woods. Annie and I were bathing…"

"Where?"

"About a quarter mile past the barn, down in the stream. It was late and we didn't think anyone would be there. I was bathing… I was almost done actually and there across the bank was this… savage. Watching me."

He takes in a sharp breath. "What did you do?"

"I screamed like a banshee and went for my gun. He ran off and was long gone by the time Annie showed up."

"From now on, take your baths indoors. That goes for your penchant for nighttime rides as well. You aren't safe and I can't always be lurking in the shadows to protect you."

My anger flares at his patronizing, but the reality is starting to sink in. I'm in danger. Surprisingly, my brain is not writhing in agony over this. Perhaps it is used to being in mortal peril. If that's the case, I'm in way deeper than I thought.

"So," I say, still leaning against him as if this was normal behavior for us both, "what did I see that is so important that this Ecklie character wants to kill me?"

"Honey, I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No, and I've been over that valley a hundred times this past week. There is absolutely nothing there. Whatever they're hiding, they're hiding it well."

"They think I will remember. That's why I'm a threat."

"Yes."

A sound from inside the saloon startles us both. "Look," he says hastily, "I need to go. I'm going to leave you here and you are going to wait a full sixty seconds before removing that blindfold, okay?"

I realize then that I could learn his identity. Once he lets me go, I could remove the blindfold and see the face of the man that melts my insides into pudding.

"Please," he says softly. "Trust me when I say you do not want to know who I am."

Oh but I do. "Why not?"

"Some things are best kept private. And besides," he says as he takes a step away from me, "I'd have to kill you."

That halts my hand's journey towards the offending blindfold. Or maybe it is the sound of his gun's hammer cocking.

"That's a good girl. Now wait quietly for a moment before you go and enjoy yourself at the festival. Keep close to your friends and don't go anywhere alone. Heed my words, Miss Sara, and take care."

I hear him leave, exiting into the alleyway. Once his footsteps start to fade I yank the cloth from my eyes while running full bore to the doorway. I look in both directions but the alley is empty.

I hear steps behind me as the kitchen door opens. "Miss Sara," Warrick says in puzzlement, "what are you doing out here?"

"N-nothing. I…" I was what? Looking for one man, snatched by another, and privy to some seriously dangerous eavesdropping? "I was just on my way out."

oooooooooooo

Annie meets me as I round the corner. "Sara, where have you been? Lunch is ready and the bake-off starts right after that!"

I'm still half in a daze but I follow her back to the tables. A place between David and Greg is open and a plate of food already sits there waiting for me.

"We know you don't care for meat much," David says, "so Greg and I made up yours beforehand and kept it cool."

What they made is some concoction of greens, carrots, nuts, and what look like blueberries. There are white blobs within it that I eventually identify as goat cheese. I sample a bite and it is actually rather tasty.

"Thank you guys. This is delicious." They both beam at my praise and then help themselves to their hunks of semi-raw meat and potatoes slathered in butter. I've learned that if I just focus on my own plate, I can get over the complete disgustingness of what others eat. Today is easier than most days since my mind is still replaying the past fifteen minutes.

After I finish my makeshift salad, I look down in my lap at the blue handkerchief resting along my thigh. I don't remember placing it there, but I blink when I realize what it is. I fiddle with the fabric lightly, wondering if El Vaquero would want it back. It's clean – thank God – and rather fancy, silk with a dark blue stitching around the edge. No farmer owns this hankie, that's for sure. Neither does a miner.

I don't know what to do with it, so I tie it around my neck like a scarf. It's a little small and the tails of the knot are pretty skimpy. But it's soft against my throat, and it matches my dress.

I'm busy making a fashion statement, so I'm not paying attention to the conversation around me. Greg pokes me in the side when I neglect to answer his question. "Hey, you with us?"

"Uh yeah, I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I asked if you were going to wait around with Annie or if you wanted to come watch the horse races with us."

Annie is studying her knife with great intensity, giving me the freedom to choose. But I'm not about to let her go this one alone. "I'm going to wait with Annie. I helped bake those pies, you know."

"You did?"

"Yeah," David chimes in, "she and Annie were up half the night working on them."

"Oh. Well, good luck then." He seems displeased, but I'm not sure why. Isn't a domesticated Sara a good thing?

It's then I notice Doc Robbins is missing. "Hey, where's Al?"

"He went back to the clinic to check on everyone," Annie says. "Plus, the constant standing hurts him after a while. He'll hang out at home until the cookout and dance this evening."

I hadn't thought of that. Doc Robbins is usually seated and treating the various patients in the clinic. He does move around, but it isn't for a long time and it isn't long distances.

Greg and David have left us; most of the other townsfolk have dispersed as well. Some are gathering around the bake-off tables, but the majority are heading for the desert behind the dance floor. I frown slightly, wondering if I was originally entered in the race with Pista.

Annie reads my thoughts. "Women aren't allowed."

"You're kidding."

"Oh, no, I'm not. Ladies ride side-saddle and never go above a trot. That's if they ride at all."

As I think about it, she's right. I haven't seen many women riding horses through town. Most are either a passenger in a wagon or cart - or they are walking.

We join the crowd milling around the bake-off table. Brass is there with Mr. Grissom and an older man who looks very official.

"Sam Braun," Annie murmurs in my ear. "The town's mayor. He and the sheriff and Mr. Grissom are the judges today."

Catherine is stationed up front while the young lady with the ledger and another with mouse brown hair are starting to slice the cakes and quickbreads. There are quite a few, making me wonder how three men are going to eat all this food.

It turns out that they don't – they each take a bite of the goodie being judged and make notations on their notepad. This takes longer than I could have ever imagined and my feet start to ache from standing in place for so long.

"Is it always like this?" I whisper to Annie.

"Yes, isn't it exciting?"

Umm… not really. But I'm getting good at the fibbing thing. "It is. I wish they'd hurry up and get to our pies, though!"

Finally, after the cakes are judged and an extremely elderly woman accepts a blue prize ribbon, it's time for the pies. They're about halfway through the entries when they get to my pie.

Boy they look nice. Our pies sliced nice and clean; Catherine's were crisp but a tad runny. The judged are sampling one of Annie's and are quite pleased. Excitement builds deep in my belly. When they get to mine, they are smiling and happy – I know they're going to love my pie!

They each take a bite. Sam Braun is first, and his face is neutral as he passes the slice of pie to the sheriff. Brass takes a large bite and stuffs it full into his mouth. Mr. Grissom takes the plate from Brass's hands and starts to cut himself a taste with his fork. That fork stops right in front of his lips when he sees his judging companions' faces.

Sam's is red, and he's chewing so fiercely he'd put a cow with her cud to shame. Brass hasn't started chewing yet. He's just frozen, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Mr. Grissom wisely puts his sample down on the table. His eyes flicker in humor as he asks "Is everything okay?" to his cohorts.

Giggles start to break out in the crowd and my face feels hot. What did I do wrong?

"What did you do to that pie?" Annie quietly barks in my ear. Sam Braun finally swallows his down while Brass is rooting through his pockets for a handkerchief.

"I don't know!"

Brass is spitting into his dirty hankie in a rather ungentlemanly fashion. Annie's tone is harsher. "What did you put in it?"

"Pie ingredients." I take a moment to remember last night when I was making the pie filling. "I put in the apples I sliced, cinnamon, nutmeg, a pat of butter, a little flour… .and oh, the powered sugar. You had the regular sugar over with you and I could see there wasn't much left. So I figured I'd use the powdered sugar."

Annie's voice takes on a strange tone. "What powdered sugar?"

"Uh… the powdered sugar in the canister with the little corncob on the front?"

Annie coughs, shakes her head, and then coughs again. "Oh sweetheart," she says, "That wasn't powdered sugar. That was cornstarch."

I look at my pie. "Uh oh… I take it cornstarch is bad for pies?"

"Corn starch is a thickener. And it doesn't taste very good. How much did you put in?"

"Two cups."

Annie screeches, "Two cups of cornstarch! Heavens, child! What were you thinking?"

All eyes are on me now. The ones I feel the most are a mild shade of blue, but the others are almost as humiliating.

Catherine adds fuel to the fire. "Sara! This is _your_ pie?"

The giggles turn to laughter. Annie tries to stand up for me but it's a lost cause.

You know, for a supposedly fun-filled occasion, I'm really not having very much fun at all.

* * *

_A/N #2: Okay so I have to apologize for not including the hoedown in this chapter. The above chapter is a little over 3000 words, and the hoedown is probably going to be another 3000 at least. I figured a 6000+ word chapter was pretty long to read - so next week will be the hoedown. Many apologies to those who were expecting it this week - I got a little wordy wrapping up the whole plot reveal and the bake-off._


	9. Chapter 8

_I know this is a day late, hopefully it is not a dollar short! Many thanks to dreamsofhim for the emergency beta. Many apologies to Cybrokat for being impatient and not getting this to her earlier. Much love to all my readers!_

_This is a long chapter. Over 5000 words. All mistakes are mine. I do hope y'all like this one._

* * *

The surface of the bar is etched with a lifetime of use. Single pockmaks dance around knife gouges and semi-obscene words carved into the heavily oiled wood. 

I'm studying this and the long, high mirror behind Warrick as he makes me a drink.

"Don't let it get to you, Miss Sara," he says as he puts the small glass before me. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"True, but not everyone shares their mistakes with the entire town." I lift the glass to my lips, pausing as a strange odor reaches me. "What is this?"

Warrick smiles. "Nothing harsh, I can assure you. You aren't a drinker, Miss Sara. That there is sarsaparilla, and I'm pretty sure you like it."

I take a sip. It's sweeter than I thought it would be. I don't remember having anything like this before. "I've had this before?"

"Yes'm." He turns and I'm reminded of what he said when I first met him. I look around the Silver Pole, noticing that a few card games have started up at the tables. I'm not alone at the bar either; a tattered miner is sitting at the far end in the shadows, nursing a similar glass filled with a light brown liquid.

I decide now is as good a time as any to solve the minor mystery of the black bartender with the sexy green eyes. "Warrick," I ask, "were we friends?"

He starts and his eyes widen for a second before a sly grin breaks out on his face. "You always were one for being direct, Miss Sara."

"Well, were we?"

He puts down the white bar towel and pulls up his stool to sit near me. "We got along all right. That is, until you got stubborn and fool-hardy and went down to the mines." He looks away, but not before I catch the flicker of hurt. There is definitely more to this story.

"We fought," I say. "The day I was hurt."

"We did."

Something registers, a click in my mind that fills in another piece of the jumbled puzzle of my memory. "I came to you about information on El Vaquero, didn't I?"

He blinks, but doesn't deny it. With a shrug he says, "Lots of folks come in here, get a drink, talk about their troubles with one another or to themselves. Most don't notice the black man behind the counter. Most don't think he can talk a'tall."

Prejudice. I hadn't seen it but it would make sense that it was there. The war was over, but the mindset of society was slow to change. Blacks were slaves and nothing more. I reached my hand across the bar and place it atop his. "Not everyone thinks that way."

His hand covers mine and pats it gently. "I know. That's why I'm so sorry for what I said that day. Ma'am, I never would wish ill on you, I swear."

"What did you say?"

He looks down, shame clear on his face. "I shouldn't have said anything to you that day, Miss Sara. I shouldn't have told you that he was there, and I shouldn't have said what I did when you left."

I don't remember any of it, but he certainly does. I squeeze his hand gently. "Look, it doesn't matter. I'm still here and I'll be okay."

His voice is thick with guilt. "But ma'am, you isn't… I mean, you aren't okay. You lost your memories."

"It wasn't your fault, Warrick."

He won't look at me.

"Warrick, it was not your fault!"

With a sigh, he says, "There were some people in here that morning. People who heard me yellin' at you to stay away from the pass into the south side of the canyon."

I lower my voice to a whisper. "Was one of those people Mr. Ecklie?"

He whispers back, "Yes'm. He left shortly after you did." Then he groans softly, "I steered him straight to ya."

I sit back for a moment to digest this. He's right - he didn't mean for me to get hurt but in all likelihood, his outburst spurred Ecklie into action. Taking what I learned earlier into consideration, this means that Ecklie and his goons are hiding something along that pass. I'm lucky that El Vaquero was there. Otherwise, I'd probably be dead.

I don't want Warrick to carry this guilt. He didn't know that Ecklie's made himself some secret hideaway down in that pass. All he knew was that El Vaquero was going to be there. How he knew this, and how I knew that he knew, is all still a mystery. But I'm not ready to pry open that can of worms just yet.

"Well, look. Try to think of it this way," I say. "If I hadn't gone down there in the first place, I wouldn't have gotten hurt." I almost choke on my next words. "At least El Vaquero was there to help me."

Warrick's eyes brighten a little. "What's done is done," I tell him. "Eventually I'll be just like new."

He nods. "I suppose you're right, Miss Sara."

"I'm not angry with you, Warrick." I pat the hand I was holding gently. "I'm not."

These are magic words as Warrick seems to collapse on himself in relief. I repeat them and his eyes are bright with emotion.

He coughs lightly and rises from his stool, making his way over to the liquor shelves. "Sometimes our past haunts us, Miss Sara. I had a friend such as yourself, back when I was much younger, and I let her down. I made a mistake and she got in trouble because of it. She never forgave me." He turns and faces me. "I wouldn't want that to happen again."

"It hasn't," I say. "I forgive you. We all make mistakes, right?"

oooooooooooooooo

I spend the rest of the afternoon keeping Warrick company as he tends to the increasing number of patrons at his bar. Most are miners, dust-covered and rather foul-smelling. All ask for whiskey. The quiet from earlier has left the saloon; there are now many card games being played in earnest. Yet another contest, I assume.

When Warrick has a spare moment, we talk of simple things. It helps to take his mind off of what happened to me, and it helps me to forget about the bake-off and Mr. Ecklie. He speaks of Catherine often and I get a hint that there is more between him and her than just an employer/employee relationship.

I'm daydreaming and watching the shadows lengthen outside the front window when there is a hard tap on my shoulder.

"Sara! So this is where you've been! Everyone's been looking for you." It's Greg, covered in dust with a small twig sticking out from behind his shirt collar.

"Greg, what the heck have you been doing? Wrestling with a tree?"

"Tumbleweed races," he says proudly. "I came in second!"

I laugh, I can't help myself. "Good for you!"

"I heard about the pie thing. Sorry about that. I overheard Judy - she was so pleased she won; she came all the way out to the field to tell Nick. I think she's sweet on him, but I'm not sure he realizes it. I mean, she isn't bad and all, but she's not my type, you know? Maybe they'll dance together tonight. Which brings up another thing: are you going to dance with me tonight or what?"

Judy won? I had come inside after all the laughing started. No need to stick around and add on to my humiliation, right? My cheeks burn at the memory, but what is more interesting is that Annie did not win. This means Catherine didn't win either. I chuckle at that but I suspect Annie is rather disappointed. Actually, she's probably pissed as all hell. Judy was the brown-haired mouse-like lady who was helping to serve the pies. Her pie must have been one of the last judged.

Greg is standing there waiting and I realize he wants me to answer something. Oh, that's right, he asked me to dance with him tonight.

Uh oh. Greg just asked me to dance with him tonight! I hadn't considered this. Dancing is a romantic thing, right? Men ask women to dance and they hold hands and… holy crap. What do I say? I can't say no. That would be rude.

"Sure, Greg," I say with a cheeriness I don't feel. "I'll dance with you."

He beams and I'm in a boatload of trouble. David warned me about this but it didn't really register until now. "_They've come a'callin' for you_…" he had said. How many men in this town are going to ask me to dance tonight? I hope it isn't a lot. I'm not up for this kind of thing at all. I don't even know if I can dance.

The walls of the saloon are starting to feel small. I need air.

I rise from my stool. "Warrick, I'll see you later tonight, okay?"

He nods as he's pouring yet another shot of Jim Bean into a glass. I walk past Greg and head towards the back door. "Let's go find Annie and get a seat for dinner before they're all taken."

As I step into the late afternoon sun, I'm so astounded by the mass of people congregated out back that I stop dead in my tracks. It seems everyone has come out of the woodwork for dinner. There don't seem to be any seats beneath the tents and people are setting up blankets around the dance floor, the stage and along the brush sweeping into the desert. There are more people than I've ever seen.

Some of them look … dirty and I realize it isn't dirt; it's just that their clothing is old and threadbare. I see the dark, haunted look of the women and the steely eyes of the men and realize that these people are miners and their families. It makes sense. Miners don't have the time to take a day off to frolic in the sun and play games like the townsfolk and their families. They're just struggling to put food on the table and keep from getting killed in the mine. The miners live in small shacks along the trails to Techatticup. I haven't seen them, but Greg told me about them. He said it was like a stick-figure mock up of a town. It never occurred to me that those men were married, but I had seen women such as these come into the clinic. I just never put the two together.

A small little girl sitting on a faded red and white checkered cloth catches my eye just then. Her blonde hair is straggly and there is a smudge across her right cheek. But her blue eyes are bright as she glares at me in defiance. "_Don't you dare look at me like that_," her eyes say. "_I don't want your pity._"

I smile softly at her and then look away. She's wrong, because it isn't pity I feel for her and those like her. It's something else.

Greg's voice breaks me out of my trance. "We're already all set with a table," he says, pointing over to the right. "See? We're over there with the sheriff and Nick." Sure enough, there are two empty chairs for me and Greg at this huge table. Annie, Al and David are there. Al is at the head of the table with Annie and David flanking him on either side. Next to Annie is one empty chair, then Catherine, who's sipping at a drink that looks suspiciously like the whiskey Warrick's been serving all afternoon. An elderly couple I don't recognize is sitting next to David. Mr. Grissom is right next to them. Brass is next to Catherine and Nick is next to Mr. Grissom's empty chair, across from Brass. The seat next to Catherine is clearly meant for me, but Greg intervenes as he trots around the table and plops himself down next to her. What does he think he's doing? Catherine doesn't look very pleased with this arrangement either, and with yet another flicker of insight, I realize he's trying to annoy her on purpose.

His words clinch the deal. "Miss Catherine," he purrs, "why yes, I'd be delighted to sit next to you this evening. It isn't often that I get to be the escort of the belle of the ball, so to speak."

Catherine is eyeing daggers at him. "Mr. Sanders, I'm sure it won't happen again!"

Greg feigns hurt and directs a bawdy wink in my direction. "Why Cath, should I be offended? C'mon now, you know I'm the best catch in town." He nudges her with his elbow, jostling her drink. "When are you going to settle down and marry me?"

Brass and Nick are chuckling quietly while the elderly couple is looking at Greg in a state of shock. Annie, Al and David are all pretending to be very interested in anything but this conversation, and Mr. Grissom is … well, I'm not sure what he's doing. I'm doing my best to ignore him while I stand and watch this whole charade.

"You may be sittin' next t' the belle of the ball," Nick says with a flourish as he stands up dramatically, "but Mr. Grissom and I would be honored to sup' next to the lovely Miss Sara." Nick swoops off his hat and executes an overly flamboyant bow right in front of me. "Please, milady, will you join us for dinner?" He gently takes my chair and makes a big show of pulling it away and gesturing for me to sit. His voice is very formal, a mock of the elite. I can't help it but smile as I say, "Yes, Mr. Stokes, I'd be delighted."

Mr. Grissom rises awkwardly as well, not as an attempt to join in the game, but more of a show of manners. "Yes, please sit," he murmurs lowly, almost shy.

I can't quite look at him so I just sit my butt down and pretend not to notice as Nick pushes me tight up against the table. I scoot it back a few inches and look down at my empty plate. Did David and Greg have the forethought to think ahead about my dinner as well as my lunch? Apparently not. Nick and Mr. Grissom sit down and there's a weird moment of silence as no one seems to know what to say.

It passes when Greg leans way in front of Catherine and asks Brass, "So Sheriff, anything exciting happen while I was taking _second_ place in the tumbleweed races?" Catherine looks like she wants to stab him in the back of his neck with her fork. He still hasn't removed the twig that is sticking out from his collar and it is inches from Catherine's nose.

Annie strikes up a conversation with the elderly lady, who I'm now assuming is Greg's aunt. Al and David listen in and Mr. Grissom is just sitting next to me, breathing. I wonder if he's as uncomfortable with this as I am.

I fidget with my silverware and start to worry. I hope they'll have something for me to eat; I'm starving. Right then a big burly man who is more than a little intimidating pops out from behind a wagon I didn't notice before and rings a very large metal triangle.

"Chow time! Come 'n get it!"

The whole crowd cheers, including most everyone at my table, which startles the hell out of me. Everyone picks up their plates, so I do likewise. We march past the other people and head towards the wagon. We aren't the first ones in line. The mayor, Sam Braun, and an entourage of very important-looking people including Mr. Ecklie, are all ahead of us. Beyond them and the wagon is a whole new set of tables, each covered with food. I almost squeal with delight as I notice my potatoes, along with carrots and celery and other things that I can eat.

There's more than a fair share of meat there as well, and I can see what looks like half a cow still roasting on a spit beyond the wagon. Beyond that is the remains of all the baked goods from the bake-off. I can't tell if my pie is there or not, but for the sake of these nice people, I hope someone had the decency to throw the thing away.

I turn around and see that the rest of the people have formed a line behind us. It looks like an unspoken ranking of the elite to the poor. The status assignment bothers me. I try not to think about it and scan the crowd looking for Ecklie's goons instead. If I had to choose, I'd say the handsome darker-skinned man with the hooded eyes was the Vartann character and the younger, lighter-haired man behind him was Peddigrew. That man was avidly engaged in a conversation with a flighty-looking redhead, although the conversation seemed strictly one-sided. The redhead is doing all the talking and Peddigrew is intently studying the ruffles on her very-tight bodice.

If this guy thought I'd be interested in him, well… he's clearly out of his mind.

I heap scoops of food onto my plate and leave the dessert table for later. We all head back to our table, the people in line eyeing us with envy. The sun is starting to set and the sky takes on an amber hue. The temperature has dropped as well, leaving behind an air of quiet contentment as people finally settle in to enjoy their dinner.

The conversation grows muted as the sunlight wanes. People return for seconds and dessert, and it seems there is more than enough food for everyone. Faces are smiling, bellies are full. For the first time since we left the house this morning, I'm finally beginning to enjoy myself. If it wasn't for Mr. Grissom sitting beside me, patiently cutting up his steak into precise equal-sized pieces before eating them, I'd be doing just fine.

Warrick finally makes an appearance from inside and eats dinner with us. I notice the glances between him and Catherine, but it seems propriety is going to win out this evening. It wouldn't be right for a white woman to dance with her black bartender. I scowl at the thought and Brass notices.

"Everything all right, Miss Sara?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine Sheriff. I was just thinking."

As the evening wears on and the stars start to light up in the sky, I'm still thinking about Ecklie and his gold, Warrick and Catherine, and the little girl with the smudge on her cheek and fire in her eyes.

oooooooooooooooo

It's dark when the music starts up. The crowd from dinner has diminished; most families have taken their children home and tucked them into their beds. The red and white checkered cloth is gone from its place near the musician's stage, taking the blue-eyed little girl with it. There's no reason for dance and celebration for that family.

However, there seems to be lots of reasons at my table. Warrick brought along a bottle of wine as well as a decanter of whiskey, and the majority of my table is now pleasantly sloshed.

Greg's aunt and uncle say their good-byes once the music picks up in earnest. Mr. Grissom offers to escort them home, and Brass and Nick decide they need to do some patrolling to make sure everyone is safe as they make their way through the streets. David dismisses himself and disappears; I'm not sure where he's headed to.

But Greg is still around and he finally convinces Catherine to join him in a square dance, a sure sign of how much liquor she's consumed today. She takes his hand with a loopy smile as he leads her onto the floor. Warrick scowls and heads inside, most likely to return to tending his bar. I know how he feels; a part of me doesn't like Greg dancing with Catherine either. Still, I take advantage of the opportunity and go sit next to Annie.

"How are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm all right," she says, patting Al's outstretched hand. I've noticed all through dinner that the two have been rather sentimental with one another. "It was disappointing to lose today, but I did come in second."

I lower my voice. "Which means you again beat out Miss Catherine."

Annie chuckles. "Yes, you're right dear. Yes I did." She then changes the subject. "So, are you going to dance with anyone tonight?"

I smirk at her. "Still trying to play matchmaker?"

"Someone has to."

"Greg asked me earlier if I was going to dance with him," I say simply.

"And you said…?"

"I said yes."

"Hmmph."

"I don't exactly see a line forming for my hand, Annie."

"Oh?" she says, and sure enough, here comes Nick, looking very eager.

"Oh shit," I mumble.

"What's that dear?" Annie says loudly. "Did you say something?"

I shoot her a death glare and then look up at the bright, smiling face of Deputy Stokes.

He removes his hat with another sweeping motion and bows dramatically before me. "My lady, would you do me the honor of joining me in the next dance?"

Panic seizes me. I don't know how to square dance! Do I?

"Uh… "

"Don't worry," Nick says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. "It's easy. I'll show you how."

I glance back at Annie, who gives me a cute little finger-wave good-bye. Thanks, Annie.

Before I know it we're out on the dance floor and the band is preparing for a new song. Couples form, each facing one another. Nick smiles at me and grabs my hand, holding it high up in the air. He grabs my other hand with his other hand, placing mine on his shoulder and his on the small of my back, a little too close to my ass for comfort.

"Yer cute when yer nervous, Miss Sara. Just relax and let me lead. It'll be fun."

Yikes. The music starts and we're off skipping around the floor. It's very fast and rather dizzying. Nick is smiling and concentrating on keeping us away from the other couples. I see Greg still with Catherine, who looks a little worse for wear. The dance ends and everyone claps. I join in because I don't know what else to do.

A man in a huge white ten-gallon hat gets up and speaks to us. The next dance is a two-step, whatever that is. Now we all are to stand side-by-side with our partners; Mr. Ten-Gallon demonstrates with a pretty young lady half his age. He spins her around and I'm instinctively backing away from Nick, mumbling "no, no, no."

He grabs me firmly and pulls me back into place. "C'mon back here, Miss Sara. You ain't gettin' away from me that easily."

Maybe I underestimated him. He's got a glint in his eye that says I'm his dance partner for the remainder of the evening. He's lining me up when Greg toddles on over and taps Nick on his shoulder. Nick winces slightly and I can almost see the testosterone flare up between the two young men.

"May I cut in? I believe Miss Sara owes me a dance."

Nick scowls hard and says, "What happened to Miss Catherine, your 'belle of the ball'?"

Greg jerks his head towards the saloon. "She needed to freshen up. So," Greg says with a hint of a growl, "may I cut in?"

I can see a little vein pop along the side of Nick's neck. He's not happy, but he hands me over to Greg. Greg says a half-hearted, "Thank you" and smiles wide at me once he's pulled me flat up against his side. I notice he's taller than me and he's looking down on me with a huge grin on his face.

"This is much better now, don'tcha think?" Maybe for you, Greg.

Greg is drunk. I can tell this when the music starts and he promptly squishes my left toe. We skip around the dance floor and I keep looking at my feet, trying to keep my toes from becoming pancakes. Greg tries to spin me around but I fail miserably at the task. It's a miracle folks aren't laughing at us.

There is a God, because the music finally does stop. I make it a point to leave when Sheriff Brass approaches. "My turn," he says with a smile as he takes my hand.

The next dance is a western waltz, the beat slower and rather romantic. Brass gives me a smirk and says, "I'm a little old for you, but this'll keep the young bucks away for a while."

We start to dance and I let Brass lead. He is a much better dancer that both my previous partners combined. "You've done this before," I say coyly.

"I have," he says back. We are playing around and it is friendly between us. "You see, every fifth dance is a slow one. This allows the couples to get all cozy with one another and for the prospective single men to woo their chosen women. Since you seem to have a quite a following tonight, and it's still very early, I made a deal with Al to keep you safe for as long as I can."

"It's an unspoken rule that if one guy cuts in, the other has to let him, right?"

"Yes. This is a gentleman's game, but it is always the lady's choice. I'm sure your little suitors didn't tell you, but you can always refuse and return to your seat at any point in time. Most ladies feign weariness or claim they need to powder their nose."

"That's good to know."

"And feel free to slap any hand that goes roaming in an inappropriate direction."

At just that moment there is a sound of a slap and the redhead that Peddigrew was drooling over in the buffet line is stomping off the floor in a huff. Peddigrew is standing there looking stunned while the other dancers start to hiss.

Brass joins them while I watch Peddigrew leave the floor and disappear into the saloon. "Bad form," Brass grumbles. "He'll keep his hands to himself next time."

The music ends and Brass smiles at me. "Thank you," he says politely.

"Thank you," I say. "Won't you stay for the next dance?"

"Oh no, my old bones can't take that fast-paced stuff. But, I can escort you back to your seat if you like."

He winks and I hold out my arm. "Lead the way."

oooooooooooooooo

A pattern ensues as the night goes on. Either Greg or Nick will yank me from my seat two dances after the slow dance. Both seem to know I won't be able to handle square dancing. It seems to be a race between the two, whoever gets to me first gets the first dance and then the other gets to poke the first's shoulder and cut in for the second. I'm sure both will have lovely bruises tomorrow morning. Brass always cuts in for the third, but by the fourth time around with this routine I can see he is tiring.

"Jim," I say, now familiar with using his first name, "why don't we just take a break for this one."

"No, no, it's okay."

"It's late. I can get David to dance with me. It'll be okay. I trust him to keep his hands to himself. He's a good guy."

"He is, but he's just as smitten with you as the other two. He's too damn polite to get between them, and while you've been sitting, both Nick and Greg have been visiting with Warrick at the bar."

I see where he's going with this. "How about you just walk me home, then?"

Brass shakes his head. "No, I couldn't do that. It's still early. It's only nine o'clock."

The dance finishes and we both follow through with our thank-you's. Al is still sitting with Annie at our table, the couple holding hands. It hits me then that Al can't dance with Annie and the thought makes me so sad that tears spring to my eyes.

I blink them away and try to think of a way to help them. Married couples should dance together. I'm tired of all the wrong I've seen and heard today. I need to make this one thing right.

The square dance starts up and I watch as couples dance and spin and move from partner to partner. An idea hits me. When Greg comes for me, I shoo him away, telling him that my feet are sore. It takes a few times for him to get the hint, but he does and finds himself another set of toes to step on. I do the same for Nick and convince Annie she needs to check up on Catherine inside. When the two-step starts, I get up and sit next to Al. "You should ask your lady to dance," I say softly.

"I wish I could," he replies.

"No one says you have to dance out there," I tell him. "You can dance right here."

Al has the most quizzical look on his face and in a flash I can see what Annie sees in him. He's very subtle about it, but I'd bet he was quite the character in his day.

"Stand up."

He's still confused. "Stand up!"

Annie joins us when he finally stands. "Catherine's fine, I sent her to bed for the evening. What's going on?"

"You two need to dance together."

Sorrow paints her face. "Oh, sweetie, it's okay. We don't need to dance."

"Oh, yes you do. I've decided. If I've got to dance all night, you've got to dance at least once. Now come over here. Come stand next to your husband."

Annie does as I say. "Now Doc, you put your hand here, and Annie, you put your hand here…" I position them like I want, as a couple standing face-to-face with Al's hand on her shoulder and Annie's hand around his waist. His other hand is on one crutch, as is hers. They both look a little baffled when I take the other crutch away.

"It'll be in the way. Now, your hands are your pivot point. Annie, get closer to him. You're a couple, remember!" I wait for her to scoot towards Al and then I show them how they can dance.

"Just sway together, okay? No one says you have to move from where you are, but if you are up to it, just lean your weight on that and spin yourselves around. Now try it."

They looked stunned and there is more than a small hint of flush on Annie's cheeks. I think they're both adorable and I hug them tight. "Just try it, huh?"

The music for the waltz starts and there is a gentle tap on my shoulder. "Jim, you should sit this one out, okay? Besides, I've got to work on these two." He taps again and I turn… and it isn't the sheriff who's come for me.

"Would you like to dance?" Mr. Grissom says calmly. I just gape and he takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. We're face to face and that fire is glowing in his eyes and my head in whirring like a top. The music starts and he leads me around the dance floor.

"That was a very nice thing you did for them," he murmurs softly. I look and there are Al and Annie, swaying slowly to the music, her head on his shoulder. They're in their own little world and their love for one another is so clear that it is almost blinding.

Tears are in my eyes when I reply, "They deserve to be happy."

"They're good people." There's a moment of silence before he says, "I'm sorry if you're disappointed."

"About what?"

"Dancing with me and not Jim."

"Oh, well… he's been keeping me safe. And I'm grateful for it. Greg and Nick have been pestering me all night." I notice Judy has finally gotten her dance with Nick and she looks delighted. Nick doesn't seem all that displeased either, but I'm not sure if it's genuine or due to the high volume of whiskey in his bloodstream.

"I noticed. I told him I would take over. A fight broke out over a poker game and he needed to attend to that."

"Oh." We dance some more, his touch light and gentle as he guides me through the steps. It feels like floating on a cloud. The music stops all to quickly, breaking the lovely moment between us.

"Thank you, Miss Sara," he says, just as Brass did. But then he does something unexpected. He takes my hand and raises it, placing a light kiss along the top. My insides do a little flip and my head gets all dizzy again.

"Uh, you're welcome. I mean… thank you."

He takes me back to my table, his hand resting gently along the small of my back. It's an innocent enough gesture, but it sends tingles straight up and down my spine.

He stops a good distance from the table. Annie and Al are still swaying together, both lost in their moment even though the music has stopped.

Mr. Grissom looks at me and I nod in silent agreement. He then coughs and I can see a slight flush to his cheeks in the dim light of the oil lamps around us. "It's a nice evening… the moon's out… it's still early… perhaps we could… goforawalkaroundtown?"

I cut him off before he can continue, wrapping my arm in his. "I'd love to," I say. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 9

_Many thanks to dreamsofhim for the beta. All mistakes are mine because I'm a bozo and love to tweak before posting.  
__Many thanks to my readers! We're about two-thirds of the way through this fic, maybe even a little further. Hope you all enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

We wander through the dusty streets in silence, our footfalls barely echoing in the still of the night. There's awkwardness between us, a feeling that some unspoken rule is breaking with each step we take. 

My head is throbbing, but I'm unsure if it's a sign that something is amiss. The slight thrill of dancing with Mr. Grissom hasn't quite faded; yet I can't help but wonder if my mind was seeing more than what's really there.

We've passed the general store and are now in a part of town I'm not familiar with. It's here I see Mr. Ecklie's bank, the police headquarters, and the municipal hall. As we walk past that rather unpretentious building and turn down a clearly residential street, he finally turns to me and speaks.

"Lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes it is."

We continue, a calm developing between us despite my anxiety. We skirt the edge of the town, avoiding the inky depths of the desert. Somewhere out there is a set of trails that lead to the mines. I've walked down those trails, I knew this town. But now, nothing is familiar to me at all.

A sigh escapes my lips unbidden. Mr. Grissom pauses and looks at me curiously.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes…I was just, well, thinking."

There is a light humor in his voice. "Those must be some intense thoughts. It sounds to me like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."

This time I sigh in earnest. "I suppose I do."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

I'm sure my eyebrows are reaching new heights along my forehead. We've walked all around town in silence and now, when we're thirty yards from my home, now he wants to talk?

He takes my hand gently. "Let's go sit over there for a bit." I mutely follow him over to a wooden bench near the barn. He sits next to me, not close enough for us to touch but not far enough for the strange current between us to be broken. It's then I realize how truly exhausted I am, not just from the day, but from my swiss-cheesed memory.

"Having amnesia is difficult," I say after a few moments.

"I wouldn't know, but I can imagine it would be trying."

"There are things I know, things that are as clear to me as night and day. There are people I recognize and know by name." I turn to face him. "I knew the sheriff and Deputy Stokes. _I knew them_. I knew Doc and David, but not Annie. And according to most everyone, I spend a lot of time with Greg, but… I didn't recognize him at all." I don't mention my reaction when I met him, although the memory hovers between us.

He waits before speaking, gathering his thoughts, I assume. "Sometimes when the human brain suffers trauma such as yours, it takes a great deal of time for it to heal."

"You're suggesting I should be patient," I say dejectedly.

"No," he replies firmly, "I'm suggesting you be realistic. The damage you incurred was significant." There's a pause while he swallows lightly. "We didn't know if you were going to survive."

I hadn't thought of this. I've been more focused on what I've lost rather than what I didn't lose – my life.

"I didn't know I was hurt that badly."

He looks away from me and says softly, "You were."

The urge to reach out to him is strong but I can't bring myself to do it. I did so with Warrick earlier today, but somehow with him it would be different. It would cross a boundary whose purpose I don't quite understand. All I know is that it is there and to act against it would be a mistake.

Instead I let out a soft sigh. "I will be okay. I just have to keep telling myself that."

He nods in agreement. "Your memory will return… eventually." He doesn't sound overjoyed at the prospect. His lack of enthusiasm reaffirms that there was something between me and him. Again, as I can only assume with him, I'm guessing whatever it was between us was not positive.

Subtlety hasn't seemed to be my strong suit, but I decide to give it a try. "To be honest, I'm surprised so many people were concerned about me. From what I can gather, I wasn't exactly the friendliest person in town."

He doesn't quite laugh, just emits a low sound that is between a cough and a bark. "You were very … focused, Miss Sara."

"Yes, I heard about my extracurricular activities. I guess you were aware of them as well?" Oops. Maybe that wasn't so subtle.

One eyebrow rises and his face morphs from sharp surprise to forced innocence. He's the mild-mannered shopkeeper again, the one who doesn't have an inkling of the charged connection between us. His tone is formal, clipped. "I'm not sure why you would think that, Miss Sara."

Now I'm truly confused and more than a little hurt. "Oh… well, I just thought you'd have heard it from Greg."

"Oh!" he says rather loudly. "Well, he and I don't interact much outside of the confines of the store."

"Really? I thought you were mentoring him."

"Well, yes, I am, but… uh… we don't talk about anything that doesn't relate to the store."

"Oh." This conversation has gotten very strange. There's something fluttering in my mind, some connection I'm not making. A concept I can't quite grasp, but I know it's within my reach.

He stands slowly so I do as well. "It's late; perhaps I should walk you to your door."

It seems our chat is over. The energy around him is restless, I can sense it. He wants to leave. I am making him uncomfortable.

"Yes, perhaps that is best."

I walk before him, expecting to feel the warmth of his hand against my back, but it never comes. Damn. I must have said something wrong, but hell if I know what it was.

We're at my back door and I turn to him, feverishly eager to send him on his way. "Thank you for a lovely walk, Mr. Grissom." Thank you for confusing the hell out of me and making my heart race before smashing it flat like a pancake. Thanks very much.

He looks down at me with that familiar cool fire glowing in his eyes. He reaches out to me, his fingertips brushing lightly against the small knot of fabric still tied around my neck.

"This looks pretty on you," he murmurs.

I reach up and touch El Vaquero's handkerchief. I had forgotten it was there. "Oh, well, thank you. But it isn't mine."

He grins. A big wide grin.

"Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Miss Sara." His touch drifts slowly down my collarbone and down my shoulder. He takes my hand in his, lifting it towards his lips.

His kiss is light across my skin, making me question if it did indeed happen. I'm left standing dumbly at the back door watching his silhouette disappear into the night.

He's a strange man, that Mr. Grissom.

oooooooooooooooooo

I wake the next morning with one hell of a headache. This is decidedly unfair since I did not imbibe any of the wine or whiskey the evening before. I hear Annie cheerfully talking to Al down in the kitchen, pots and pans banging harshly, leaving painful ringing echoes in my ears.

I'm glad one of us had a good night. I pull the covers back over my head but the noise is too much. I wonder if the curious Mr. Grissom has a tonic or powder for headaches. I could never go and ask him though. Not after last night. He goes from sexy hot to sterile cold in seconds. I decided when I went to bed that I wasn't going to waste my time worrying about him.

Of course, I'm worrying about him now. Ugh.

With a groan, I make yet another executive decision – to get out of bed. Bitter cold shoots through the soles of my feet when I realize my slippers are on the other side of the bed.

This is going to be one of those days, isn't it?

It takes me longer than I'd like to remove the ribbons Annie wove into my hair. I should have taken them out last night and sleeping has not done me any favors. I finally do get them out and brush through the tangles and snarls. It isn't pretty, but it is going to have to do.

My headache follows me downstairs, worse than ever because of all the tugging and pulling I did to my hair. Damn Mr. Grissom for being so strange. If he hadn't walked me home last night, I would have been able to go to his store and get something for this headache. Now I can't, because it would be awkward. Very awkward.

Annie serves me fried eggs and toast for breakfast. My stomach turns at the sight. I finish it slowly, swallowing each bite with a sip from the cup of tea she's also prepared for me.

"You have a nice time last night, dearie? I saw you went for a walk. It was a beautiful evening for walk. Very romantic."

She's at it again. Miss Matchmaker. I'm surprised she's moved on from El Vaquero, but it's clear she approves of me and Mr. Grissom.

"It was nice," I say vaguely.

"Nice?"

"Yes. Nice."

She puts her hands on her hips, the wooden spoon bumping against the butcher block counter. "You know child, you are about the stubborn'st thing I've ever seen! Mr. Grissom is a very good man. You should be pleased he favors you."

Yeah, lucky me.

"Look Annie, we can talk about the virtues of Mr. Grissom later, okay? I've got a splitting headache and I just can't handle it right now."

"Oh you poor thing!" she cries, switching to Mother mode in an instant. "I have something for that. Here." She retrieves a small packet from one of the drawers and taps some herbs into my tea.

"Stir that in and drink it quickly. It'll help with your pain. Have you finished the medications Mr. Grissom gave you?"

"No, but this isn't that kind of headache. This is… something different." It's a hangover is what it is, but that doesn't make sense because I didn't drink anything! Maybe it was that sarsaparilla. I thought it had a kick to it. Damn Warrick.

I stir the pale leaves and bits into my cup of tea and drink it as quickly as I can. I wait a full five minutes with no results.

"Maybe I need some air," I tell her. David has joined us and definitely looks the worse for wear. Christ, I thought I was bad. His hair looks like a bird nested in it and the dark shadows under his eyes put mine to shame.

"Coffee," he grumbles. "Please. Coffee."

Al hands him a mug with a chuckle. "That'll teach you to go drink-for-drink with Mr. Sanders."

David holds his head up in defiance, wincing as he does so. "I won."

"I'll bet you did," Annie chirps.

"I'll be outside in the barn," I tell them. "Maybe I'll take Pista out to stretch her legs."

Annie is focused on David, lightly tugging at the spikes of hair protruding from his scalp. "Hurry back," she calls lightly. "We've got lots to do today."

Whoopee. I can't walk to the barn fast enough, the overcast sky protecting my eyes from the sun. I don't think I could handle the sun today.

Pista is delighted to see me and makes many different noises to tell me so. She nips at my hand when I'm too slow in putting on her halter.

"Ow! You knock that off or I'm leaving you here."

She shakes her head up and down; if I didn't know better I'd say she's laughing at me.

"Very funny. You should mind your manners missy," I say sternly, pointing at her. "It isn't polite to tease a lady with a non-alcoholic hangover."

She snorts. "Oh, knock it off."

I ready her and hop into the saddle with a jolt. She turns and gives me the horse equivalent of a scowl.

I grin evilly. "Serves you right. Now let's go."

She dose a little dance in agitation before trottings us out of the barn. Sniffing the air, she chooses to take us east, into the desert. I let her have her way and we wander through the scrub brush and grasses, no real destination in mind. Once we pass the other end of town, I turn us around and pick up the pace.

Freedom doesn't begin to describe how it feels to ride with her. When we pass the barn I slow her, pointing us towards the stream that Annie and I bathed in. A voice echoes in my head – Brass warned me not to go here alone.

But really, I'm not alone, I'm with Pista. I doubt anyone would mess with me on a horse. Even if they did, I have my gun. I have no idea how to use it, but I've got it all the same.

We're making our way through the pines towards the river when the crack of a branch startles us both. I reach for my gun and hold it in front of me while urging Pista forward.

The stream is ahead of us; there's no sign of anything amiss. No footprints in the dust, no stray clothing or other signs of folks nearby.

I pat Pista's neck gently, lowering the quivering gun to my lap. "Just some animal," I tell her. "Nothing to worry about."

She's still nervous, her ears almost flat against her skull and her eyes white and wary.

"It's nothing… just an…"

There is a man standing at the edge of the stream; he appeared out of nowhere. Pista screams and rears, almost throwing me from her back. I grab her reins tight and urge her backwards.

The man is scowling, dark, with a large knife in his hand. I can see it gleam in the muted light. He's wearing a stained breechcloth and there are two feathers attached to a thin leather headband: one red, the other white.

_Indian._ I should have listened to Brass. It isn't safe here. I point my gun straight at the man's chest, still trying to get Pista to back up. The sweat from my hands makes holding the gun and the reins difficult, so I tighten my grip on both. We need to get out of here.

"Leave me alone!" I shout. "Stay away or I'll shoot!"

There's a loud, whooping cry from behind me that sends Pista into a fury. I can hear her crashing through the underbrush, galloping to safety as I feel my body fall through the air.

I hit the ground hard, my gun flying free of my grasp and landing over in the tall grass a good five feet away from me. The Indian from the stream approaches me, twirling his knife slowly. As I attempt to sit up, two more dark-skinned faces appear in my line of sight. Their eyes are dark and bloodshot, cold beads of hate boring right into me.

"Get up," says the one from the stream. His English is stilted, but understandable. I do as he says.

Hard metal pokes me between my shoulder blades. "Move," says a voice from behind. I yelp and turn my head instinctively. This Indian is younger than the rest; he has a headband with two yellow feathers. I look back and notice that his friends also have two yellow feathers. They look similar, brothers perhaps. One has a paper-thin scar running along his right cheek.

My heart is in my throat as we head past the stream and back into the desert. Four scraggly-looking horses are waiting there. The Indian behind me gestures towards one of them with his gun, indicating for me to mount. Red and White Feathers waves his knife at me in warning, saying something that I don't understand.

I do want they want. The painful poke in my side when Young Yellow Feathers joins me in the saddle indicates that I am not to try anything stupid. It isn't necessary, I know what happens next.

I know they're going to kill me.

_

* * *

A/N #2: "Oh Noes! Sara's in trouble! People want to kill her! Will anyone save her? Oh Noes!"  
LOL! __Isn't this fun? Next week's chapter should be very exciting, don'tcha think?_


	11. Chapter 10

_A day late again - sorry about that! A new arrival to my home, one of the four-legged and fuzzy variety is responsible for the delay. Many thanks to dreamsofhim for the emergency beta. Any mistakes? All mine, baby._

_There are strong references to not-so-nice things in this chapter. Do not read if you are sensitive to such things._

* * *

We ride through the desert, heading towards a distant mountain range. The overcast skies have thickened, turning the air damp and cloying. We've passed the town, the mines; I have no idea where the hell we are. 

But Red and White knows – he's our leader. We're behind him and the brothers are behind us. My Indian has been quiet the entire trip, the poke in my side always present despite the changes in terrain.

After what seems like hours, we stop to rest at a dry riverbed. One of the brothers approaches and speaks to my Indian. I can't understand one word, so I try to fathom what they're saying by watching their faces and body language.

The brother wants something from my Indian and my Indian is waffling on the decision. Red and White shouts at us and the brother nods. He then grabs me roughly and yanks, pulling me half off the horse. His other arm wraps around me as he tosses me over his shoulder. I yelp when I crash into him and I get a smack on my ass in return.

I try to free myself but the other brother hurries over to help. My arms are pulled behind my back and a scratchy rope is wrapped around them, tightly. Before I know it, I'm dropped to the ground and fighting to regain my balance.

Both brothers laugh as my Indian grumbles indignantly. He clearly did not want for this to happen, but it seems that he was overruled by the majority. One brother starts to taunt the young man, making gestures that seem downright obscene.

This really fuels a fire in the young man. He throws his gun to the ground and charges full bore into the other. The two fall in a heap, rolling and thrashing in the dirt. I use this opportunity to make my way towards the gun. I'm not sure what I can do with it with my hands tied, but right now, I'm willing to try anything.

Red and White is hollering at the two, trying to get them to stop. I inch closer to the abandoned pistol; I'm almost there when Red and White turns and notices me. His expression does not bode well for my immediate future. Neither does his rapid dash for the gun. It's deadly still in his hand as he positions it scant inches from my forehead.

I step away from him, my hands useless in portraying my surrender as they flop against my back. He grabs my shoulder and pulls me to his side, shouting at the fighting men as he does so.

They stop their tumbling and Red and White proceeds to chastise them, shaking me for emphasis and keeping the gun pressed against my ear. He finishes his diatribe and shoves me forward, making me stumble and fall face first. My chin scrapes against the ground and my teeth click loudly as my jaw slams shut.

Ow! I'm fighting back tears when my young Yellow Feathers comes to my side. I am expecting to be kicked, so I brace myself for the impact. But instead he helps me to my feet and snarls nasty words at Red and White. That unpleasant individual growls something back in return as he tugs on the bridle of his horse, leading it down into the riverbed.

Yellow Feathers guides me back to our horse, but instead of mounting, he ties my hands to one of the long lines of the horse's reins. We follow Red and White and the two brothers on foot, the one with the scar now sporting a nasty scrape along his chin that matches my own. Clearly the scar-free brother inherited some restraint and common sense from his parents that the other did not.

We walk across the riverbed and remount. It is awkward for me to ride this way, but my Indian holds onto the rope binding my hands to keep me upright. As we ride further away from civilization and closer to the unknown, I can't help but wonder…Why haven't they killed me yet?

oooooooooo

The sun is low in the sky when we reach a sheltered valley. The mountains are much closer now; I'm assuming they are our final destination. I think longingly of home, of my bed, of Annie and Al and David. What are they doing now? Did Pista return to the barn? Have they sent for help?

I contemplate my odds – they aren't favorable. I have fleeting fantasies of El Vaquero riding to rescue me. In reality, it would be Brass and Nick, or maybe a group of the townsfolk. Thoughts of Greg astride a white stallion send me into a minor giggle fit. Hysteria. I must remain calm.

All four men are setting up camp for the night. I watch from my new location; I'm tied to a gnarled tree trunk. My wrists are still bound, but they've hobbled me as well. A long length of twine connects the rope around my ankles to the tree. I study my captors. All are definitely younger than me, the oldest being Red and White. The three Yellow Feathers must be related and I'm almost sure the brothers are fraternal twins. They are amiable with Red and White, whereas Young Yellow Feathers is not. He seems to keep to himself and he keeps staring at me with a mixture of skepticism and awe.

They talk amongst themselves as they unpack their horses, now tethered to another withered tree on the other side of the camp. The brothers disappear, most likely in search of food or firewood. Yellow Feathers wanders off as well, but in the opposite direction. It's just me and Red and White now. He sits next to a large rock and starts to toy with his knife, carving away slivers of wood from a dead branch. He is eyeing me with an intensity that chills me to the bone.

Reality hits then: a dull thud in the pit of my stomach. They plan to rape me before they kill me. That's why I'm not dead yet.

Fear grips my insides and my head starts its own version of a tornado. Panic-induced nausea floods me as my whole body starts to shake. Dear God, I have to get out of here!

Think. Think. Think. I need to be calm. I need to be rational. Assess the situation and come up with possible solutions.

First things first, I am tired of standing. I try to sit but wind up with my legs folded beneath me and a knobby stump poking into my tailbone. Not the best situation. After some hard-core fidgeting, I make myself comfortable and study the rope attached to my ankles. It's thick and the knot looks pretty serious. I won't be able to untie it with my hands behind my back either.

Red and White is chuckling softly as he whittles down the wood. It is like a timer: as each piece falls to the ground at his feet, he's one step closer to running out of tree branch to keep him occupied. Once he finishes, he'll find something else to do. Something that involves me; something highly unpleasant.

I need to think. What are my options? Well, he'll have to release my ankles if he plans on doing anything serious. When he does, I can kick him. Kick him right where it counts. It'll be tough for him to do anything dangerous after that!

He could cut me with his knife, though. Perhaps I could disarm him – kick him and then when he doubles over, kick again at his hands. Knock the knife away. In fact, if I could get a hold of that knife, I could use it to release my wrists.

Then I could make a dash for one of the horses and ride east. I like this. I'm optimistic about this plan. Positive thoughts, right? Think positive and positive things will happen.

Young Yellow Feathers returns, branches and twigs overflowing in his arms. He's brought the firewood so the twins must be hunting down dinner. The thought of eating raw or barely cooked meat instills another wave of nausea. I doubt these Indians will understand that I can't eat it.

I watch while Yellow Feathers stacks the kindling and starts a small fire. His return seems to have delayed Red and White's progress on his branch, but my initial assumption is confirmed when Red and White walks over to me and drops the branch a few feet in front of me. I scramble to my feet when he approaches. He speaks and I don't need to know the words to know what he's saying.

"_We'll finish this later._"

My Yellow Feathers hears this and is not pleased. They begin to argue in earnest, with lots of gesturing and pointing at me. Yellow Feathers comes up and stands before me, stating something in a very authoritative voice. I watch him pound his fist against his chest.

Aha. It seems I belong to him. That would be why he's defending me and why he's been watching me so closely. The thought of becoming his slave or whatever they do with white women in Indian society is not appealing. However, this means that he'll keep me from being raped by all of them, right? That's a positive, isn't it?

They are still arguing. Red and White is taunting Yellow Feathers, making what must be extremely offensive gestures because Yellow Feathers is furious. He runs to his horse and reaches in the saddlebag, going for the gun.

Red and White cackles, the sound muted against the snap and crackle of the fire. Yellow Feathers freezes as he and I both realize that the one gun in our party is now in the wrong hands. I didn't see Red and White do it, but he must have taken it from the saddle bag. He reaches behind the rock and there it is – glittery cold in the twilight.

My mind is racing in high gear as Red and White points the gun at Yellow Feather's chest. He says something in a low voice and Yellow Feathers turns his head to me, desperation and anxiety clear in the dark eyes. He looks to Red and White and then back again at me. With great resignation, he backs off and makes the universal gesture of "after you."

Oh shit. Red and White is openly leering at me now, his face twisted in the firelight. Yellow Feathers is still standing by his horse, content to be an observer. A shudder runs through me, straight from the back of my neck to my toes. This is not good at all.

Where are the twins? Why haven't they returned? Would they stand up for their little brother or friend or whatever he is – make sure that his future slave woman is safe?

Red and White still has the gun in one hand. He approaches me slowly, prolonging each step. He's toying with me and I keep visualizing how he's going to release my ankles first, and how I'm going to kick him. I'm going to kick him so hard that his balls will come out his throat. I'm going to kick him again and again. I will not go down without a fight!

He presses the gun against my temple and growls something in that low voice of his. He pushes down hard on my shoulder, forcing me sit like I was before. My legs are folded and crossed; I will have to untwist myself in order to strike. I try to relax and prepare. I'll only have one shot at this.

His fingers make short work of the twine attached to the tree. I'm free but still bound and hobbled. He pushes me on my side and my heart starts to pound when he doesn't untie the rope around my ankles. I know what he's going to do now, and I'm defenseless against him.

I look up at him, tears blurring my vision. "Please," I say, "don't do this."

He sneers down at me, pressing the gun hard into my head. I close my eyes and prepare to do whatever I can to save myself. "Dear God," I pray, "please, please help me!"

A soft swish cuts through the night air and I hear a strange sound above me. I raise my eyes as the pressure against my temple lessens. What I see is nothing short of a nightmare. An arrow is impaled lengthwise through the man's neck, arterial blood spurting off to one side. I try my best to scramble away as his body starts to slump. I hear strange choking noises and realize they are coming from me.

I can only focus on one thing – getting away. Eventually I can go no further and I curl up into myself, shaking. I'm away, I tell myself. It'll be okay. He's dead. Someone killed him.

I look past the fire and see a cluster of men standing off to the side. The Yellow Feather twins are there along with an older Indian. This Indian wears an ornate headband with leather strips hanging down – most of them decorated with large yellow feathers. An authority figure if I ever saw one. He is scowling deeply, the empty bow still in his left hand. Young Yellow Feathers is behind him, looking sheepish and ashamed. And next to them all stands a man in black; a man I recognize.

I sob in relief. El Vaquero has saved me. I don't know how, or who the other Indian is, but they both just saved my life.

He approaches me quickly, severing the bonds around my wrists with a small knife. The glow from the fire adds a soft cast to his covered face, making him less intimidating and more…human.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his palm flat against my cheek as his thumb brushes away a forgotten tear.

I look up at him. "I…"

I can't continue. I'm frozen...spellbound. There's no denying the intensity in his gaze, no denying the emotions I sensed from him but was too stupid to understand. There's no denying him and his damn eyes because I've seen them before – vibrant blue and mysterious as all hell. No wonder I was so attracted to both of them. They're the same man.

His real name passes from my lips before a cacophony of light and pain hurls me into numbing oblivion.


	12. Chapter 11

_I know, I know - it's been over six weeks since I updated and that's just plain terrrible. What can I say? The holidays and real life beat the heck outta me and my poor muse and left us for dead. We have recovered though, and hope that those of you who are still reading will enjoy this next chapter. It's a long one - you've been warned!_

_Many thanks to Cybrokat and dreamsofhim for their excellent beta work. All mistakes are definitely mine as I love to tweak._

* * *

I wake in darkness, horribly disoriented. My mind comprehends little more than the crackle of kindling and the stirrings of the desert at night. Blinking, I turn and stare into the small fire on my left, feeling its warmth and relishing in it. Beyond the flames sits El Vaquero, the dim light flickering against the gentle, bearded face of Mr. Grissom. The world spins for a moment as I come to terms with what I'm seeing. 

His eyes are pinched in concentration as he works the small pestle into the mortar he holds in his palm. He hasn't noticed I'm awake, providing me with the perfect opportunity to study him.

His mask lays forgotten on a rock off to his left, kin to a pair of dark leather gloves. The warm tendrils of the fire's heat have persuaded him to roll his sleeves and unbutton three of the buttons on his black cotton shirt. I know it is exactly three because I cannot draw my eyes away from the pale expanse of skin the buttons reveal. A few droplets of sweat glisten along his throat and collarbone.

I acknowledge the reason for the fluttering in my belly, but I'm not pleased by it, not in the slightest. This man lied to me; he took advantage of me. My mind reviews the night El Vaquero came from the bowels of the desert, toying with me and taking advantage of my swiss-cheese memory to make love to my mouth. I also recall the subdued and mysterious Mr. Grissom – always polite, always the perfect gentleman, but there was that strange undercurrent I couldn't explain away. I remember El Vaquero's chiding comments when he blindfolded me in the doorway to Catherine's saloon. I remember the heat of Mr. Grissom's fingers against my skin that same night, the tingling of his kiss upon my hand when he commented on his own damned handkerchief.

Anger flares within me and I growl in frustration. I've been such a fool!

My groan puts him on instant alert and those blue eyes bore into mine from across the flames. He places the mortar and pestle on the neighboring rock and hurries to my side. I watch him warily as he lowers himself next to me.

"You're awake," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

I want to snarl at him, but his thumb is lightly brushing my hair from my face and I'm entranced by the sensation. How is it that I can be so aggravated and aroused all at the same time?

"I'm preparing a poultice for you. It should help the scrapes on your cheek and your wrists heal quicker, and it should minimize any scarring."

His fingers brush lightly against my cheek, the contact with my sensitive skin reviving the past twenty-four hours in a rush. I sit up abruptly, shivering uncontrollably as the memories flood me. The Indians. The glimmer of the knife against wood as Red and White Feathers taunted me. The feel of his slimy, cold hands on my body. And the blood. The blood when the arrow severed the carotid artery. Streams of it spattering into the dust as he fell towards me.

"Easy, easy honey." He wraps a warm but scratchy blanket around my shoulders, holding me tight and rocking me softly. "It's over. No one is going to hurt you."

It takes minutes for my racing heart to calm. He is right, I keep telling myself. It is over. I am safe.

I turn to him and when my gaze meets his, the situation suddenly turns awkward. He withdraws his arm from around my shoulders and rises to his feet.

"I'll, uh… get that poultice for you."

If I didn't know better, I'd say Mr. Grissom was shy. But there was nothing shy about El Vaquero – ever, so what is going on? I can't bring myself to question it, so I just watch as he adds a few more leaves to his mortar and works them with the small pestle.

"How did you know where to find me?" I ask hesitantly. "And who was that other Indian with you?"

His tone echoes mine when he replies. "To be honest, I didn't know where to find you. Walking Bear did. He sent word to me that a woman from my town had been kidnapped by his rebellious nephews."

So, he hadn't known it was me that was kidnapped. He hadn't ridden like the wind on his wild black horse, desperate to rescue me. I'm not sure how I want to feel about that, so I push it to the back of my mind and attempt to learn more about the Indians.

"Walking Bear is a chief, right?"

He laughs softly. "No, Walking Bear is a Mojave warrior and a council Elder, but he is not the clan head by any means."

"And the Yellow Feather brothers are his nephews?"

More laughter. "Yes. The two older boys are … well, one translates to Coyote Howl and the other to Coyote Stalking. The younger boy is kin by different brother, his name translates to…" He coughs slightly. "It's best to say his name is Small Rooster."

He raises an eyebrow at me in a sly gesture and I totally miss the hidden meaning for a good forty seconds. My eyes widen as I realize why the other men were teasing Young Yellow Feathers. That explains the gestures.

"Who would name their son such a thing? Don't they realize the implications of that?"

"In their world, no. Roosters are tough birds and respected by those who know them. In our world, the slang of his name is indeed rather degrading. It doesn't help that the poor young man has been slow with his development. He most likely will live up to his name."

With that statement, he starts to laugh and I can't help but join in.

"That's terrible," I say. "The poor kid."

His laughter ceases and his tone grows cold. "Wild Hawk was not from the Mojave. Wild Hawk was Paiute, and a rogue. He abandoned his tribe and their ways for the gallons of whiskey he poured down his throat. He worked in Techatticup, and he worked for Ecklie."

Wild Hawk must be Red and White Feathers. The disgust is evident in El Vaquero's tone, so I wonder how he feels about the others who were clearly in league with Wild Hawk.

"What about the Coyote brothers?" I ask. "They were working with him too."

"Yes, I know. Walking Bear has been scouting their activities for quite some time, overseeing what they do while their father remains at the clan's summer location. He wasn't to interfere until the brothers truly crossed the line. Walking Bear is known for his tracking skills – he is rarely discovered."

"So he tracked the four of them, he saw them take me, and then he told you?"

"Something like that," he mumbles. "It was wrong for him to interfere and to kill Wild Hawk. Wild Hawk is not of our people; his death might cause problems between the two tribes."

I blink. "Our people?"

The expression on Mr. Grissom's face shows he revealed more than he intended. He stares into the embers of the dying fire before putting the mortar to the side. It is only after he has re-stoked the flames with twigs and a rotting log that he speaks.

"I left Chicago with my parents when I was nine. We traveled west for days, weeks maybe, in a makeshift wagon with only one horse and minimal food. We arrived in Colorado with nothing and could go no further without supplies. My mother was tired of the open road, as was I. My father acquiesced and we settled in what is now Denver. Back then, it was just being developed.

We were there for over a year when a great blizzard hit. It was incredibly cold and it snowed for what seemed like months. We weren't prepared and our home was too far from the main settlement to easily travel for food or supplies. Both my parents grew ill with what I now believe was an early form of influenza. Neither survived."

His words cease; the pain of his loss still evident despite all the years that have passed. With a slight roll of his shoulders, he continues.

"Although the townsfolk did want to help, no one could afford to take on the responsibility of an orphan. Within two months I was loaded onto a stagecoach heading to Utah. I was to be indentured to a blacksmith in Gold Hill, an uncle of one of the men in Denver. Three days in, the coach was raided by Indians, by a clan of the Mojave."

He needn't say more as the pieces of the puzzle click into place.

"They took you in. Made you a member of their tribe."

"Not quite," he murmurs. "I was a slave first, oh… for at least two years. I worked long and hard, doing what they directed and fearing each and every day that they were going to kill me like they had the other people in that coach."

He looks at me sharply. "They were ruthless. It took me a long time to see beyond that."

"Well, they didn't kill you."

"No, they didn't. The … I guess you could say shaman or medicine man… well, he fascinated me. I couldn't stop myself from watching him work. I got many a beating because of it. An older woman finally noticed why I was distracted and spoke to the clan on my behalf. That clinched it and I became the property of the medicine man. In time, I became his son."

He says the last with pride and I wonder what his relationship to the authoritative Walking Bear is. Walking Bear is too young to be the medicine man of his story. A brother perhaps? Cousin?

"I had all intentions of staying with the Mojave forever," he says with a sad nostalgia. "I became a warrior and brought much to my clan. But it wasn't meant to be. I fell in love with a young woman who didn't care for me at all. I challenged her chosen man, and I lost."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I just say, "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago and I was foolish to wish the attentions of a woman already attached to another man. He was older than I and left me with only a few battle scars. The worst wounds he gave were the ones to my pride." He shuffles his weight slightly.

"I had to leave. My clan father argued with me for days, but I wouldn't listen. I refused to stay in a camp where I was humiliated." He chuckles. "I was quite full of myself back then."

I bite my lip to keep from saying, "And you aren't now?"

He smirks at me as he picks up the mortar he abandoned near the fire. After pouring a small amount of water into the bowl and stirring it a few times, he approaches with both the bowl and the water flask, settling himself next to me in the dust.

"Hold out your wrists. The sooner we get those cuts cleaned, the better."

I wince as he washes the debris from my wounds and then carefully applies the poultice. It is warm at first but cools as it dries. It doesn't smell all that pleasant either. While he is dabbing at my wrists, he continues his story.

"I went back to Denver and apprenticed myself to the town physician. He was quite literate, but a complete imbecile when it came to applying theory to practice. I thanked God each day for my parents – for teaching me to read; and for my clan father – for teaching me the skills of medicines. I learned quite a bit from combining Mojave medicine with his collection of books, and I saved quite a few lives during that time."

He lowers my right wrist and gestures for the left. "As Denver grew, so did the crime element. I never was one to follow the rules, so I started my own version of peace-keeping outside of the law."

He looks me in the eye while still holding my hand. "It was the way of my clan, and some of their ruthlessness seeped into me, I suppose. I've since toned down my ways, but I've been a vigilante in many towns for quite some time."

I am afraid to ask him, but I do anyway. "Did you ever make it to Tennessee?"

He releases my wrist and glares at me, growling, "You are very stubborn, Miss Sara. I told you I did not murder your brother and by God, I did not!"

"Just checking," I say.

He rolls his eyes at me, clearly exasperated. "I did my share of killing, yes. Not everything I've done has been legal. But I have always been morally correct in the actions I took."

I get it and my expression tells him so. There is silence between us until I ask, "So why here? Why Nelson?"

"Techatticup was in serious need of my services. I made it my mission to go where I was needed, help those who couldn't help themselves. Word of mouth brought me here and I'll leave when the mines are safe for the decent men who try to work them."

"Why not work for Doc Robbins and Annie? Why work at the store? Why take on Greg?"

"Doc Robbins and I spoke when I first came to Nelson. It was clear that he was skilled in the art of healing. I did not want to intrude on his practice." He smiles. "It was Annie Robbins who told me of the plight of the general store. It seemed I would be more useful there as an apothecary. Plus, I could help keep the store out of Ecklie's greedy little hands. That in itself was motivation. Ecklie started out in Denver. He doesn't know it, but I've been following him for a while."

I wonder to myself if Mr. Grissom realizes how much Ecklie wants him dead. I suppose he does and it's obvious to me he's not intimidated by the man in the slightest.

"Anyone ever tell you that you have a serious Robin Hood complex going on?"

He laughs. "I suppose I do. Then again, you aren't exactly in the position to make judgments against irrational behavior now, are you?"

I scowl. "I see nothing wrong with seeking justice for my brother's death."

"You seek justice by risking your life needlessly against enemies you could never defeat. Where's the sense in that?"

His tone is so haughty that I remember why I originally labeled El Vaquero as a pompous ass. I'm tempted to slap him but he's dabbing my cheek with his nasty poultice, so I just glare venomously into those sparkling blue eyes.

He again chuckles as he finishes his work. "Try not to roll around in the dirt too much this evening, Miss Sara."

I wrap his smelly blanket tighter around me, careful not to disturb the treatments on my wrist. "I'll be fine, thank you."

He returns to his spot on the other side of the fire. "It's late," he says while looking up at the night sky. "We have a long ride home tomorrow, so you'd better get some rest."

I settle on my side, the blanket doing little to relieve the chill in the air. I scoot closer to the fire, eager for its warmth.

"Good night, Miss Sara," he murmurs huskily from beyond the flames. "Sleep tight."

I do not reply.

ooooooooooo

The morning arrives entirely too soon for my liking and I spend a good five minutes fumbling over how I should address my traveling companion. Do I call him Mr. Grissom or El Vaquero?

He is cleaning up our campsite, scuffing dirt over the remaining coals of the fire. His horse is nearby, restless and impatient. Beyond him lies the great unknown of the desert, cacti, brush and boulders partially obscured by early haze of dawn.

"Who are you?" I ask him.

He freezes and stares at me in surprise. His boot lingers over the still-hot ashes and when the heat penetrates through his sole, he yanks his foot back with a yelp.

"I'm serious. Are you El Vaquero de la Noche, vigilante extraordinaire, or Mr. Gil Grissom, town apothecary?" I stand and face him squarely. "I need to know so that I may address you properly."

My tone sounds so prim that I almost wince at my own words. Almost. I expect a smart rebuttal from him, but instead his voice is deadly calm.

"I would prefer it if you called me El Vaquero when I am operating in this capacity. I also would prefer you call me Mr. Grissom… or Gil… when we return to Nelson. I also ask that you keep my extra-curricular activities to yourself. My success relies on others not knowing who I am."

With that statement, he pulls the familiar mask over his head. The dark hat completes the ensemble and El Vaquero as I know him stands before me. Only the shine of his eyes give his identity away.

"So be it," I say, rebuffed. "Well, what's the plan, Mr. Vaquero?"

He is all business as he hands me a clean cloth and the water flask. "Wash the poultice from your wrists and your face first. After that, we'll start on our way back."

"No breakfast in bed?" I gripe, regretting the words the instant they fly from my mouth.

His voice is a low rumble. "Is that what you'd like? A novel concept, but it can certainly be arranged."

This is the El Vaquero I remember. I find it interesting that without the mask, the polite and mild-mannered shopkeeper seems to prevail, but when it is in place, the bold and amazingly sexy rogue is the dominant personality. What's worse is that I'm attracted to both sides of the coin, or man as the case may be.

"Dr. Phil would have a field day with you," I blurt.

He looks at me strangely. "Who is Dr. Phil?"

I search my mind but draw a complete blank, feeling as if the answer is just out of my reach. "I… I don't know."

We leave camp with a restless tension between us, neither of us comfortable with ourselves or each other.

ooooooooooo

It is well into the afternoon when we finally stop to rest. His horse is sweating from the exertion of carrying us both across the barren terrain. My shoulders are blistering from the heat of the sun and I am not in the best of moods.

My temperament improves when he dismounts and leads his horse and I into a sheltered outcropping, a smaller version of the canyons down by the mines. There is an indent along the rock face; we enter into a large covered area that isn't quite a cave. At his signal, I dismount and stand idle while he ties off his horse to one of the larger rocks, making sure he remains in the shade. He removes two water casks and a small pack from the horse's saddlebags.

He undoes the straps around one cask and it opens to a wide-mouthed bucket. I realize this is for his horse right before he offers the water to the stallion, who slurps it happily.

He then walks into the gloom of the pseudo-cave, so I follow. It isn't quite dark, but it isn't quite light either. There is the echo of running water; at least I hope that's what I'm hearing.

I'm delighted when we come to a small but powerful stream cutting across our path. The rock walls have been smoothed by years of torment from the water, and I wonder how we are going to wash in this violent little river. My thoughts are on ways to avoid getting caught in the current when El Vaquero warns me to watch my step. I turn to him and he is hopping from stone to slippery stone, heading towards the other side of the river. I follow, although he has to grab my arm and pull me to safety when I lose my footing on the last rock. While I'm recovering from my near-death experience, he takes a small box from his pack and places it on the ground. Reaching behind a boulder, he retrieves what can only be a torch. I watch as he strikes two stones together and a spark flies onto the dark batting, igniting it easily.

"I hope you aren't too afraid of the dark, Miss Sara. Or of tight spaces."

I happen to feel quite uncomfortable about both, but I'm not about to inform him of that. "I'll be fine," I say.

He turns and heads into the darkness. It's obvious he's been here before as the torch seems to be for my benefit more than his. I am so busy watching my feet to ensure that I don't trip over anything, that I don't notice when he comes to a stop.

I crash into him with an _oomph_ and immediately backpedal away from him into the darkness.

"You should watch where you are going," he chides softly as he removes his hat and pulls the mask from his head. I step towards his outline and notice that there are sparkles in the ceiling. I look beyond him and am astounded by what I see. The cave opens up to a cavern, a huge underground labyrinth. The reflections of light on the ceilings and the walls are golden, and it doesn't take me long to realize that there is more gold here than in half of Techatticup.

"It's beautiful," I say. There is a long, winding path that leads down to a pool, a small, calm pool large enough to bathe in. There are others pools further away, but it is the closest I am eyeing with unadulterated hunger.

He is still studying the labyrinth, examining each wall and each corner. It hits me then – all this must belong to him. All this gold and it belongs to him. My God, he's a millionaire!

"Why haven't you mined this yet?" I ask, astounded.

His eyes burn a bright fire when he turns to me. "I will never mine this. This is sacred ground. No one must ever learn it is here, do you understand?"

I nod, thoroughly intimidated.

"The gold that is so craved for its monetary value is special to the Mojave in a different way. It is cherished and spiritual, a connection to the Earth that is very sacred to them. I brought you here so we could rest for a while before returning to Nelson after the sun sets. I'm sure you realize that I can't be seen during the daylight."

I hadn't, but it makes sense.

"There is some food down below; at least there should be some. There might also be some towels and a change of clothes."

He's my hero. "I can bathe? In that pool?" I point at it excitedly.

He smiles. "It's heated. That's an underground hot spring. See the bubbles?"

I look closely and sure enough, there are little bubbles in the water. I'm half-skipping down the dirt path as he hollers, "Be careful!" Yeah, right.

The water is warm to the touch and I almost moan in delight. A warm bath. A long, hot bath. I hope to God he's got towels and soap somewhere in his little pantry. Even the crudest of soap would be acceptable.

A few moments pass before he joins me at the pool's edge, smiling brightly. "I'll be right back." He walks to a dark cave, sticking the torch into the wall before going inside. A few moments later he returns, a thin but serviceable towel draped over one forearm.

He hands me the towel, and the small bar of soap clasped within his palm. There is a God. I'm a believer.

"Oh you wonderful, wonderful man. I take back every horrible thing I ever said about you, even all the things I can't remember saying. Thank you!" I hug him impulsively and suddenly the air around us is charged with sexual heat.

"I doubt you'd take back everything you've said," he says with a purr, lifting my face to his. "I am still a ruthless savage at heart."

His mouth crushes my own. I feel myself fall into him, delighting in the heat of his body against mine. His hands are gentle against my face and his kisses are intoxicating. To Hell with the old Sara and her bias against this man.

He pins me back against the cool cavern wall, his fingers entangled in my hair. I moan his Christian name against his throat and he groans mine in response. I can feel his need and my body is responding in kind.

He pulls away from me slowly, desire still lingering in his gaze. "You should freshen up."

"Uh… yeah." Damp caverns aren't the most romantic places in the world, but you know, I was ready and willing to give it a try. It seems he is not.

He turns away and heads into the small pantry, leaving me to bathe in privacy. How very gentlemanly of him. I spend the majority of my marvelous bath wondering whether he left to protect me, or to spite me.

ooooooooooo

Our trip out of the beautiful cavern is uneventful, although I feel much, much better after my bath. Our supper consists of a can of beans, eaten cold as there isn't enough kindling around to start a fire. I try to think of home, of Annie's cooking, of a nice warm cup of tea as I spoon the cold, tasteless beans into my mouth.

My stomach reminds me that this is the only food I've had in over 24 hours and demands more. My tummy is growling when I mount behind the now-masked El Vaquero and we head out into the darkness.

The stars slowly make their appearance overhead and despite our previous encounter, there is minimal tension between us. It is like an unspoken communication occurred between us. I'm curious about what will come next.

My curiosity is not sated when we approach the barn. El Vaquero dismounts and offers his hand to help me down.

"Welcome home," he says softly.

I hit the familiar soil and realize I haven't thanked him for saving me. "Thank you … for all of this. If you weren't there…" God, I don't want to even think about that.

His palm cradles my cheek. "But I was. I was there and you're safe now." I revel in the warmth of his touch; full moments pass before he slowly withdraws his hand. "I need to go. "

"I know." I look past the barn at the lights glowing in the kitchen. Annie is going to freak. "Thank you."

He lifts himself into the saddle and tips his hat at me in farewell. "'Til we meet again, ma'am."

I stare out into the darkness as he rides away. When he is completely gone from my sight, I walk to the back door and knock.

Through the sheer curtains, I see Annie leap from her favorite chair in the kitchen and rush to the door.

"Gil? Gil is that you? Did you find her?"

Boy is Annie surprised when she realizes it is me standing in the doorway.

"Sara!" she screams, enveloping me in a huge embrace. She's squeezing me so hard I swear that ninety percent of the air capacity of my lungs has been permanently disabled.

Tears stream down her face as she babbles through her sobbing. "…. we were so worried… didn't know if you were dead! Dead! But you're not… oh dear Lord, Sara, I'm so glad you are okay!"

Then she hollers, "Al! David! Sara is back! She's back and she's safe!"

Al and David rush in from the clinic door. More hugging and squeezing commences as both men express their delight at my safe return. This must be what a stuffed teddy bear feels like. Loved and squished all at the same time.

"Your face!" Annie cries when David and Al let me go. "What happened?"

"I had a negative confrontation with the desert floor. It'll heal, Annie."

She scowls heavily, but lets it pass. Instead, she offers me a cup of tea and some potato and leek stew, which I accept and devour with fervor.

"Never run off like that again," she scolds as she mixes up the dough for tomorrow morning's biscuits. "Pista came back a total wreck and it took me and David three hours to calm her enough to get her into her stall."

She shakes the wooden spoon at me. "Never again, ya hear?"

I smile at her. "Never again, Annie. Believe me, I won't be going far from town for a very long time."

It's an hour later when Annie is done with her hugging and reprimanding. "I'm so glad you're home safe, Sara," she says. "See you in the morning."

"Good night, Annie."

It is refreshing to walk up the familiar stairs and through the familiar hallway to my very familiar bedroom. I go straight to my wardrobe and retrieve the softest nightgown I can find, as well as clean panties and my thickest wool socks. I pull the fluffy cotton blanket from the hope chest and spread it across my bed before burrowing under the sheets, the quilt and the blanket.

I remember it all, the light musty smell of my pillow and the crisp smell of the sheets. There is safety in remembering, in knowing and taking comfort in my surroundings. I try to shake off the memories of Red and White Feathers and concentrate on the more recent and pleasant memories of El Vaquero.

Or, as Annie called him, Gil. Wasn't that interesting. Annie and I should talk tomorrow morning. We should most definitely have a little chat.

* * *

_A/N #2: So yay for a new chapter! I can't guarantee that I'll have another by next Wednesday, but I will try. There are only two left - the next one, which will be incredibly long, and the final chapter, which will also be incredibly long. I hope you at least enjoyed this chapter - let's all hope I can get the next one out soon!_


	13. Chapter 12

_A/N: I know... I am terrible. It has been a little over six months since I updated. The good news is that Eldorado is finished. Yes, finished. I will be posting the last chapter sometime tomorrow. This is the second to the last chapter - obviously. Both are long so I wanted to give y'all time to read this one before posting the next. Many, many thanks to dreamsofhim and Cybrokat for their oustanding beta efforts! All mistakes are mine and mine alone - I am very stingy that way. T__hank you all very much for reading!_

* * *

I wake to the late morning sun casting its light across my pillow. It is an effort to leave the comforts of my bed, but boredom and hunger drag me from its warmth. Breakfast has long since passed; Annie is alone in the kitchen preparing lunch for the patients in the ward. Doc and David must be tending to them. 

"Feeling better?" Annie asks.

"Yes, definitely," I reply, eyeing the food hungrily.

"Help yourself. There is more than enough for everyone."

"That's good," I say, helping myself to some bread and pea soup, leaving the ham instinctively. A cool glass of iced tea helps wash the meal down. I can't help thinking how lucky I am to be home, to have people who care for me. There's nothing like getting kidnapped and threatened with rape and death to make you appreciate the little things.

"This is very good, thank you, Annie."

She looks surprised and pleased. "You're welcome. Any plans for today?" Her tone is light, curious. I suspect she wants to know if I'm going to visit with Mr. Grissom. Now's as good a time as any to ask her about him.

"How long have you known?"

She is silent, focused on slicing the ham. I wait her out and finally she speaks.

"A few weeks after he arrived. He needed a place to keep Dante."

"Dante?"

"His horse."

Oh. I never did learn the beast's name. Fitting.

"He isn't stabled here now," I say, stating the obvious.

"Yes, well… it seemed best to remove him when you began living here."

I laugh. "Yeah, I guess it was."

This gets me thinking about why I supposedly came to Nelson in the first place. So much has changed since that day I woke in my bed with Doc and Dave hovering over me. Ghosts of pain meander through my head, reiterating the fact that there is still so much I don't remember. Still, I did solve the mystery of Mr. El Vaquero, didn't I?

I stand and take my dishes to the sink. "I know he didn't kill my brother, Annie."

"I told you that before," she says haughtily. "You should have listened!" She is smiling and I feel another surge of fondness for her. She is such the mother hen to me.

"You're right, I should have. I'm sorry. What should I do now?" I ask her, expressing the lingering sense of confusion I feel. "I'm not the person I was before. Should I still search for my brother's killer?" I can't help but think that is what Sara would have wanted me, us, to do.

Annie sighs heavily as she picks up the lunch tray. "Honey, sometimes it is best to let the past stay in the past. This was another something I told you before, but as always, you were too fool-headed and fired up to listen."

That's probably true. The Sara before me went out alone to the mines to search for El Vaquero and was attacked. I, quite like her it seems, went off on my own to the river despite warnings to the contrary, and was kidnapped. Logic would say that I should quit looking for trouble. And I know now that Sara's reason for coming here was wrong – El Vaquero is not her brother's killer. Shouldn't that satisfy the Sara before me, the one hiding in my psyche?

"I'm listening now, Annie," I say to her.

She nods a grim approval. "You'd better," she says as she heads toward the ward.

I study the scrapes on my wrists carefully. Yes, it is probably best if I settle myself down a bit. No more night rides alone with Pista, no more quests for killers or vigilantes. No more weird romances with men with split personalities, either. Mr. Grissom and his El Vaquero are best left on their own. No more adventures for me. I have a nice life here and people who care about me. What more could I possibly ask for?

oooooooooooo

I spend the next few days at home, splitting my time between resting and helping Doc and Annie with the ward. I clean Pista's stall and take her out twice a day for brief rides in the desert. I refuse to stray far from the barn, which aggravates Pista. She is a free spirit, like I vowed I would never be again. It is with mixed feelings that I comb her down and put her back in the corral with the other horses.

Greg comes to visit each afternoon; he is teaching me chess. I am sitting at the table in the front room when the bell over the door clangs, announcing his arrival.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sara," he says in a falsetto-y formal tone.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders," I reply in kind. "Are you ready to get your ass whipped?"

His face is a mock scowl. "Sara! Chess is a gentleman's game. You sully it with your coarse words."

I laugh and throw a chess piece at him. "You sully it with your presence. Now sit down so we can play."

"Actually," he says in an odd tone, "I was thinking we might do something else."

"Oh?"

"I was thinking you might like to do a little … shopping." His eyes twinkle when he speaks the last word. Oh yeah, he's up to something.

"Shopping."

"Yes," he nods vigorously. "Shopping."

I run upstairs and inform David that Greg and I are going out around the town for the afternoon, and tell him to let Annie know I should be back in time for supper. I pause at my bedroom doorway and consider taking my gun, but decide against it. I notice my hat sitting on the dresser, and decide against that as well. I am neither a lady nor a tomboy and I'm quite fine with that.

Greg meets me at the door and offers his arm. I take it and we walk into the streets of Nelson. As we make our way past the saloon, I look through the window and catch Mr. Brown's eye. He waves with a smile and I wave in return. I realize I owe him an apology; I should have listened to his warnings as well.

We are meandering through the streets, crossing from one to the next, only stopping at a few window displays or to greet folks that Greg knows. Many ask how I'm feeling or wish me a good day. I reply that I'm quite fine, thank you and it is all very polite and somewhat surreal. After a while I realize we haven't gone into any of the shops we've passed.

"Are we looking for something in particular?" I ask him.

"Well, yes, yes we are."

"And that would be…?" We are now walking down a narrow alleyway between a boutique and the town library and my voice faintly echoes against the walls.

"We uh… need some apples."

"Apples?"

"Yes, apples."

I stop at the end of the alley, noticing that we have basically done a large loop and are now facing the general store. "Greg, what's going on?"

"We've been walking for a while now, don't you think? That really worked up my appetite. I'll bet it worked up yours too. Wouldn't you like a nice juicy apple right about now?" he asks innocently.

"Umm… no Greg."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want an apple?" He turns his head and looks into the small window on the far left side of the store. It is Mr. Grissom's back office. I can see the shadow of a man walking past the window and my insides turn to pudding.

"Uh…"

He takes my arm in his and half drags me over to the store. "I really think you need an apple, Miss Sara. You look rather peaked to me. An apple would do you good."

My insides turn all fluttery when I see Mr. Grissom walking past the front doorway on his way to the store counter. A flare of anger appears as I wonder if I've been set up. Perhaps Mr. Grissom sent Greg on a mission to retrieve me. That in itself seems odd as I thought Greg was unaware of Mr. Grissom's extracurricular activities. Unless Mr. Grissom lied to me…

"Grissom!" Greg hollers as he walks through the door. "Miss Sara is here and is interested in purchasing some apples!" He turns and freezes when he sees Mr. Grissom is not quite three feet away from him.

"Oh. There you are," he says, his voice many decibels lower. "Well, Miss Sara needs some apples." He yanks me inside and I'm staring into those eyes again, noticing the confusion, the ire and most importantly, the flicker of delight in seeing me. The eyes leave mine and focus on Greg, while that lovely mouth turns down in a frown.

"Greg… what do you think you are doing?"

Oh. This is interesting. He wasn't involved in whatever Greg is up to. That still doesn't explain why Greg brought me here, though.

"Who? Me? Nothing." Greg's voice is the epitome of innocence. "I just was taking Sara for a walk around town and she indicated to me that she was hungry and would like an apple. Didn't you Sara?"

I stare at Greg in shock, incapable of speech. What does he think he's doing?

"Well," he says to Mr. Grissom, "she did and I think it would be best if I ran along and found her one." With that he promptly trots off to the storeroom and I can hear the faint sound of the rear door closing a few moments later.

Mr. Grissom and I watch the empty air where Greg once stood. He breaks the silence for us and I find myself swimming in rich depths of blue.

"Well, that's Greg for you. Good afternoon, Miss Sara. How are you feeling today?"

Light-headed, kind of woozy, lots of fluttering in the tummy, heart pounding in my chest, all perfectly normal swooning feelings I'm sure. "I feel fine, thank you. Uh… how are you?"

He smiles politely. "I'm doing well, thank you." The air grows thick and awkward as silent moments pass. Thoughts of his hands on my waist, his lips on my own… I'm drowning in memories of his touch and literally aching for more.

"It seems Mr. Sanders would like for you to visit with me today. However, that may not be your choice. So, would you?"

Huh? Did he just ask me something? "Would I what?"

"Would you like to visit with me today."

"Oh. Sure. I…" I have no idea what I'm saying. I clearly cannot have a normal conversation with this man. Jesus, what are we going to do? Raunchy thoughts enter into my mind. This is insane. I'm going to seriously pound the snot out of Greg when I see him again.

He places his hand on my shoulder. "Greg tells me that you've been practicing your chess moves." He leads me back into the smaller room, the office I saw the shadow in before. "Would you care to play a game or two with me?" He clears a small table and offers me a seat before retrieving a box from the bookshelf. I am totally guilty of watching his ass tighten as he reaches to the top shelf to get the particular box he is interested in.

He blows lightly on the top to clear the dust, creating a small cloud as he does so. He then opens the box and proceeds to set up various chess pieces on a very old and faded chessboard. I watch as a strong hand delicately sets a faded white pawn in the center of a dark square. Focus. I need to focus.

"You do play, don't you?" he says, noticing my intense gaze.

"Yes, I can play."

"Good," he replies, finishing the setup of the game. "Ladies first," he gestures as he sits across from me. There is something in his tone that fires a competitive streak within me. I look at him directly and the hint of that pompous attitude is there, rumbling in his words and hovering behind his gaze. He thinks he's going to win. He thinks I can't beat him.

"Certainly," I say. And with a very firm hand I move my third pawn two spaces forward. Let the games begin.

oooooooooooo

Two hours pass and we are in game number three. He won the first game. But I won the second. Greg did return after a while and he has been managing the store while we've been secluded in the office, playing our games as the world passes us by. Dusk is approaching and I realize with a start that Annie is expecting me for dinner.

"I need to go," I tell him quietly. "Annie will freak if I'm late for dinner."

He chuckles, the frames of his glasses jiggling on his nose when he does so. "Then we shall call this a draw and re-match at another time." He brought out the glasses at the beginning of the game; he fiddles with them when he is thinking. I was totally charmed by it when he did it earlier and I am charmed again as he does it now.

He finally removes them and looks at me intently. "I would like for us to continue our game sometime soon, Miss Sara."

I meet his gaze. "I would like that as well."

"Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?" he asks, a hint of insecurity dangling on his words.

"Tomorrow afternoon would be fine, as long as I'm not needed at the clinic or in the wards."

"Tomorrow afternoon then." We both rise and he escorts me out into the store, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back until we are within sight of Greg behind the counter.

"Thank you for a lovely game, Miss Sara."

"No, thank you, Mr. Grissom."

Greg is beaming and smirking and I can tell he thinks he is something special for playing Cupid or whatever he thinks he's doing. Why he did this or even knew about the… situation between me and Mr. Grissom is still a mystery and despite my vow to avoid adventure at all cost, learning Greg's reasons has become a high priority on my list.

It seems that it has become a priority for Mr. Grissom as well because I hear his harsh words as I leave the store. "Mr. Sanders, in my office. Immediately."

oooooooooooo

I return home for dinner. Annie and I clean up and settle in for the night. Sleep is long in coming though, my mind spinning through the events of the afternoon. I'm still focused on the chess game, planning what my next move might have been in order to beat Mr. Grissom.

I must have drifted off because I wake with a start into the inky darkness of the deep night. I look around my room, confused and disoriented. A loud rap on my window draws my attention. I get out of bed and peer outside.

Below is a shadow of a figure tossing another rock in my direction. I yelp and leap out of the way as it slams against the glass just inches from where I was.

"Oops! Sorry!" comes from below.

I return to the window and stare at the man below. "What are you doing here?" I whisper.

"What?"

"What are you doing here?" I repeat a little louder.

"I need to see you."

Damn, I need to see him too. Flirting, I say, "Well, here I am. You've seen me." I chuckle to myself. I am such a tease.

"Come down."

Oh boy. I know that tone. A little ripple of excitement flutters through me. I feel like a teenager again as I grab a robe and throw it over me. I take my time tip-toeing down the stairs and past the kitchen to the back door.

I open it slowly and take only one step outside before I'm engulfed in the heady scent of Mr. Grissom all decked out as El Vaquero. His tongue is against mine before I can even grab a breath.

"I had to see you," he murmurs against my throat, the cloth of his mask and the heat of his breath sending shivers down my spine. "Today, at the shop, it took everything I had to not kiss you. To not make you my own."

I say nothing as I bring his face to mine. We are lost in each other as we lean against the side of the house, desperate for the other's touch.

"Ride with me," he says. He whistles for Dante and lifts me up onto the stallion's back. Within seconds we are riding like the wind across the desert, my robe abandoned on the back steps.

So much for my boycott on adventure. We arrive where I'd dreamed we would, at his golden cavern in the rocky hillside. We enter through a different passage, one that leads us to the other side of the vast space, one that leads to a small cave where he has clearly stayed in the past. There is a feather-filled mattress kept off the floor by a wooden frame. Atop it rests a couple of lumpy pillows and a heavily patched quilt. All look clean and well cared for, albeit a bit old.

He pauses as he places his torch in the holder mounted into the cavern wall. The flames highlight the multicolored squares scattered across the bed. He removed his mask when we arrived and I can clearly see the lines of his face grimace in disgust.

"What is it?" I ask, thinking that he saw some mouse or other nasty creepy-crawly beneath the sheets.

"I… this… you deserve better," he sighs. "Than here, in some moldy cave." There is sorrow painted on his face.

My heart melts. Here we are running away for some illicit tryst in the darkest night and he thinks that I'm worried about an old comforter? Does he not know how amazingly erotic this all is? Does he not realize how badly I want him right now? My whole being is on fire because of him and he's worried about a blanket?

"It's perfect," I say. And it is. "Although it's a bit warm." With that I remove my shift, shrugging it off my shoulders lightly and stepping out of it as I walk towards the bed. I turn only my head and my eyes catch the hunger in his and echo it as I say, "Don't you think so?"

It does not take long for him to join me. Flesh finally meets aching flesh as we collapse into one another, the torch providing a soft glow against our bodies as we crash into ecstasy.

oooooooooooo

It is early in the morning when I finally tear myself away from the warm tangle of sheets and Mr. Grissom. The torch burnt out a long time ago but I can quite confidently say I was too distracted to notice. I do know it is morning because the glow from the cavern has intensified. Mr. Grissom explained to me that the sun comes in through various cracks in the rock's surface and illuminates the metal within the stone. A geological anomaly, he called it.

I can see the small hot spring where I bathed before; I can't remember how many days ago that was. I find my way to the alcove where the towels and soap are, and proceed to delight in yet another warm and soapy bath. I am almost finished when he joins me, and we spend a bit more time in the heated pool, experimenting with the wonders of human flesh combined with slippery soap.

It is much later in the morning when we finally are prepared to leave. I am concerned about Annie and tell him so. I really do not want her to worry yet again; I'm afraid all my drama will give the poor woman heart palpitations.

"Don't be concerned, Sara."

"But, the robe. I left it on the stairs."

"She'll bring it inside when she sees it. She isn't as naïve as you think she is. She's aware of my intentions and your feelings for me."

"Excuse me? Your intentions? My feelings for you? Did this not all just happen within the past twelve hours? How in the world could she have been 'aware' when she was fast asleep when I left last night?"

"Because… she wasn't asleep. She saw us and she saw us leave."

Embarrassment flames my cheeks. "Omigod, she did? She saw us?"

He laughs. "Don't be so ashamed! Love makes people do crazy things."

I blink. Love? Did he say love? Does he think I'm in love with him? Am I in love with him? I realize in an instant that after last night, I most certainly am. But I'll be damned if I let him know that.

"Well," I say in a clipped tone, "I wouldn't know about that."

His eyes flicker with amusement. "Is that so?"

"Yes," I say firmly. "It is quite so."

"I see. Well, I know a great deal about that."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do." He is silent after that, packing up our used towels into a dark canvas bag.

"Care to elaborate?" I ask him hesitantly.

"Nope, not right now."

I shake my head. "You are definitely a pompous ass. I knew it from the first time I saw you."

"And you," he says, sweeping me up in his embrace, "are a feisty and incredibly stubborn lady and I love you for it." He crushes his lips against mine and quickly withdraws, laughing loudly.

I must look dumbfounded because that is exactly how I feel. He smiles as he brushes his thumb against my cheek. "Don't fret too much, Miss Sara. Everything will work itself out. You'll see."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Vaquero. Or, it seems, Gil Grissom."

The cold voice shocks us both and we turn towards the source. Conrad Ecklie is at the top of the entrance to the cavern, beside him stands the Vartann character and two other unfriendly men. Their pistols shine darkly in the cavern's golden light.

I look to Grissom and for the first time, the confident and powerful visage of El Vaquero is cracked. He has drawn his gun in defense but we both know we're outnumbered. From out of the shadows behind us, Hank Pettigrew appears, his own pistol pointed straight at my chest.

"Move along," he growls, jerking his head towards the path up to Ecklie. "Let's go."

Grissom and I obey and find ourselves all too soon in front of Ecklie and his goons. The former is cackling evilly. "I am so very delighted to have finally found your little hideout, Mr. Vaquero. You really should not have made it quite so simple to follow your trail. Clearly the man behind the mask is much less of a threat than I anticipated. Going to whip up a potion to save yourself, Gil? Maybe toss some dried flowers and grasses at us?" The goons laugh and Grissom glares at them with a growl.

Conrad pokes his gun's barrel against Grissom's face and Grissom jerks back with a sneer. Ecklie yanks Grissom's gun from his hands and tosses it to Hank. "Eh eh, Mr. Grissom. Be nice to my men here. You wouldn't want them to get angry now, would you?"

At that instant one of the goons steps forward and yanks me to him. I feel the cold steel bite into my temple and my temper flares. Haven't I been here before? Didn't I just go through this with some other goons again hired by Ecklie?

"Now we move," Ecklie says, gesturing towards the entrance.

We walk through the passageway, our way lit by the torches of Vartann and the other goon. Hank has his gun buried in Grissom's back and my goon seems to delight in poking my shoulder with his gun. The roar of the underground river gradually gets louder as we approach. It seems almost deafening when we are finally standing near the edge.

Grissom speaks to Ecklie when we are all in the clearing. "You have me," he states. "That's what you really want. Let her go."

"No…" I moan as the two goons grab him, pinning his arms behind his back while slamming him against the cave wall. Ecklie and his cohorts are all laughing and my blood begins to burn.

"I think it's time we ended this charade," he says, pointing the pistol's barrel at Grissom's forehead. "Say good-bye to your hero, Miss Sidle." He pulls back the trigger and I realize it's now or never. I rush forward and tackle Hank, grabbing Grissom's pistol from Hank's hands and pushing him into the river in the process. Hank screams loudly until the current pulls him under the water, out of sight and no longer a threat. Ecklie's head turns towards the sound as I take aim and fire. He blinks exactly four times and then stares at the spreading red patch blossoming across his chest. Three seconds pass where not a person moves. Then there is chaos.

Ecklie charges towards me, his hands wrapping around my throat before I even see him coming. I drop the gun and find myself in an intense struggle to tear away his clawed fingers from my neck. He is bleeding all over me, shouting, "I'll kill you bitch. I'll kill you!"

I hear the sounds of struggle behind me so I assume Grissom is fighting off the goons. Ecklie's strength is slowly fading and finally I am able to kick him away from me. He slumps to the ground and lays still. Grissom has incapacitated one goon; he lies on the floor with a red stain growing around his head. He has also acquired a gun, which he is now pointing at Vartaan and the other goon.

I reach for the gun I dropped when Ecklie reaches out and grabs my ankle, twisting it painfully. "I'll take you down with me, you rotten little whore," he growls as he yanks me off my feet. I kick and fight against him, we are tumbling in a full on wrestling match when I hear Grissom yell, "Sara!" right before a shock of frigid water hits my body. Ecklie is still clinging to me and we're both caught up in the violent current of the river. By pure chance, the current turns us and Ecklie's body impacts a large rock first, jarring me free and sending him into the icy depths. I fight to keep my head above the water and grab onto any rock I can, but it is no use, the rocks are worn smooth by years of cascading water.

"Grissom!" I cry. "Help!"

"SARA!" Grissom yells as he runs along the cavern wall.

"HELP!" Oh, please help me, Grissom. I don't want to die!

I slam into what must be another rock and pain explodes in my shoulder. I grab a hold of the rock with my other arm as my body slides around and yes, finally, my fingers grip onto an indent in the surface and I can hold on!

"I'm coming Sara!" Grissom cries. "Hang on!"

"GRISSOM!" I shout. The water is pounding against me and my fingers are beyond numb with the chill. I know I cannot hold on much longer.

"Hang on!" he cries, his eyes filled with panic as he looks for a way to cross the river to get to me. He hops from one rock to the next, he is standing only two rocks away when a large wave of water rips me from my rock, from my life with Grissom, from Annie, Doc Robbins and David, from Greg and Brass and Nick and Warrick and Catherine and everything that was so very wonderful about the town of Nelson, Nevada.

"SARA!" The last thing I see is his face contorted in horror, his hand outstretched as I am pulled away by the current. "SARA!" My body crashes into yet another rock, exploding familiar pain across my brain. The water overtakes me, I cannot see, I try to scream but my lungs are unable to fill with air. I'm choking, I cannot breathe. Oh God, please… please… please let it end soon…

There is a white-hot flash exploding from within my body and then… there are the deep black depths of nothing.


	14. Chapter 13

_A/N: This is it! Last chapter. The origins of this story began when I read that a particular romance novelist did not like fan fiction writers. I decided to do something of a parody of her "style" as I was rather distressed by her very cold comments regarding fan fiction. I actually failed miserably at this as she does not write in first-person-present, she writes in first-person-past. And, in case it isn't obvious, this story took on a life of its own. Still, I thought it would be helpful to explain why this turned out the way it did. It is the first thing I've written that actually ended exactly the way I planned it. And for the record, writing anything in present tense is a huge pain in the ass. I strongly recommend against it._

_Thank you to my betas for this fic: dreamsofhim, Cybrokat and Cincoflex! Thank you so much to everyone out there for reading and reviewing! Enjoy!_

* * *

The figure lurking in the shadows of the dimly lit room does not stir, but maintains its vigil of the prone body within the bed before it. The figure is a man, Gil Grissom by name, and he has not left the room of the woman, Sara Sidle, for fifteen hours now. 

Each breath the woman takes brings a ray of hope to Gil Grissom. Each moan or cry she makes sends him racing from the chair in the corner to her side, taking her hand and calling her name. He is distraught as any man can ever be; he pleads with the Lord to heal her and keep her here with him. He must not take her away. He prays this over and over as he listens to the random beeps and whirs of the monitors; while he watches the woman he loves fight to stay alive.

Fifteen more hours pass before the woman in the bed stirs. The man in the shadows is slumped in his chair, exhaustion finally overcame him a few hours earlier. She blinks and takes in her surroundings. She notices the machinery first, as it is loud to her ears and startles her. She sees her white sheets second and the metal frame of the bed third. The rest of the room comes to her in a blur, the TV, the panel door to the bathroom, the hotel-style air conditioner on the floor underneath the window. The large blobs of flowers printed on the curtains; those are pulled shut, the few rays of sun peaking through the cracks at the edges. And there is the man, slumped in the drab olive chair, his hair unkempt, his beard scraggly, his clothing rumpled.

"Grissom?" she tries to call out, but chokes when she says the words. The monitors start to beep and squeal loudly as she panics. The noise wakes the man and he rushes as before to her bedside, taking her hand in his. She can feel his warmth; it almost burns right through her.

"Sara?" he says, his blue eyes meeting hers. She notices the redness and the raw fear there; guilt floods her as she realizes she somehow caused it. She tries to again speak his name but is again hindered the dryness of her throat. Her arms instinctively rise in self-preservation when a flood gate of people enters into the room.

"Please relax," says a young woman in white. "You've been in a coma. Do you understand?"

Wide-eyed, Sara nods. "You must relax," says other. A haze begins to grow, clouding her vision until the world becomes opaque and she slips back into unconsciousness.

"What did you do to her?" the man asks angrily. "She was in a coma! She just woke up!"

"Sir," one nurse says haughtily, "she needs her rest. This is common in patients with head injuries. You should leave the room now so we can tend to her."

"I'm not leaving her."

The nurse makes a gesture and three others surround him. "You really need to leave now," they all parrot at him. "It will be okay, you can see her when we're done, we promise."

The nurses are fortunate that the man has had little sleep because he has little strength to fight them. They drag him outside into a hallway and settle him on a faded sofa in a lobby. "Just wait here and we'll come and get you when she is awake again."

He does as they ask, waiting and pushing himself to remain alert. He succumbs to exhaustion thirty minutes later and in his dreams he continuously thanks the Lord for returning his Sara to him.

oooooooooooo

Sara is not pleased and her displeasure has become everyone's pain. She wants to go home, but her doctor refuses to release her until the once gaping wound on her head has completely healed. The cast on her foot is itchy and sweaty and her arm tingles with lack of circulation. It is strapped to her side to allow her dislocated right shoulder to heal properly.

She is tired of physical therapy, she is tired of hospital food, and she is throwing a holy fit at anyone who comes to try to help her.

Grissom has been there for her the entire time; it is only he that does not feel her wrath. When he visits, she sobs against his shoulder and he comforts her with his soft words and soothing voice. He will tell her stories about their work, trying to get her to smile. Sometimes she does smile and will laugh with him. Many times they play quiet games together; Sara has developed a very pressing need to play chess whenever possible. Sara is sure that every nurse on the floor hates her; they are treating her poorly because of it. She does not treat them well in kind, despite Grissom's pleas for her to do otherwise.

The nurses do not understand what she went through. They do not understand at all. No one does. Sara's foray into the past is very real to her; she had just adapted to it as reality when it was ripped from her. She has told no one, not even Grissom, what occurred while she was in a coma.

She considered it, but after a few visits from her friends, she realized she'd better keep her mouth shut.

Doc Robbins had arrived early on, his bright eyes filled with concern and relief, and his metal crutches exactly what she remembered prior to her ordeal. "They are metal," she had said to him. "I knew they were metal."

He had looked at her strangely but dismissed it until she asked about Annie.

"Uh, Sara… who is Annie?"

"Annie is your wife, right?"

"My wife's name is Linda."

Shame and embarrassment had flooded her. Sara does know his wife's name; she knows what she looks like as well. She had met her at the couple's thirtieth anniversary party a few years ago. Linda is a kind but subdued woman; she does not resemble Annie in the slightest. Doc Robbins left when Sara's eyes had filled with tears, apologizing for upsetting her. He did not return. For days she mourned the loss of Annie, coming to the very dour conclusion that there is no Annie in her real life.

Greg drops in each afternoon before he goes into work. He is exactly the same to her as he was in her past reality. He plays chess with her as well and she beats him exactly the same way she had beaten him before. He too will attempt to cheer her up, and she will laugh with him as well. Greg is the only person she told about her relationship with Grissom prior to her accident. The relationship was and still is fairly new, and Sara had needed to share her happiness with a friend. Greg was delighted when she told him. "You both deserve to be happy," he had said. In Sara's mind, Greg's knowledge of their relationship rationalizes the Past Greg's behavior in bringing Sara and the Past Grissom together.

Nick and Warrick visited twice, once together, once separately. They brought her flowers and told her to take it easy and get better soon. Nick's lack of an accent, and Warrick's confident nonchalance are just as jarring to her as her original encounter with the Nick and Warrick of the past.

Brass stops by every other day. He pops into her room, say hello, squeezes her hand and leaves. He, like Greg, seems the same to her. Even David, who came once alone, is twin to his doppelganger. The only thing different is the glasses. And the wedding ring. Her Past David was unattached.

The day of her accident is permanently gone to her. She knows it occurred, the doctors and Grissom himself have told her what happened. But she remembers none of it. It is as if she went to sleep the night before the accident and awoke in her hospital bed the next day. Memories of her life in the past intermix with her present reality, making her question more than once what is truly real and what is fantasy.

For almost a week now she has tolerated the nurses, the therapy, and the doctor poking and prodding, "Does this hurt?" Enough is enough. She wants to go home.

When her doctor, Dr. Fernandez, finally comes to her during his daily rounds, she demands to be released.

"A few more days, Sara," he tells her clipboard. "Just a few more."

"Dr. Fernandez," says a voice from the doorway, "could she be released earlier if someone were to watch over her for the next week or so? I believe she would recover faster if she were in a more … comfortable environment."

Dr. Fernandez raises his head and studies Dr. Grissom. A moment passes as he considers his proposition. "If you can provide continuous surveillance of her and bring her to her physical therapy each day, I suppose it would be okay."

"I see no problem with either of those things."

Sara cannot contain her joy at the prospect of getting away from the hospital. "Please, can I go now? What do I need to do to get the hell outta here?" She struggles to right herself on the bed but Grissom rushes to her side and stops her.

"You'll have to prevent her from overexerting herself," Dr. Fernandez says derisively.

"Sara," Grissom scowls, "you need to take it easy. Your body went through significant trauma…"

"… and my injuries need time and rest in order to heal properly. Yes, yes, I know. Can we just go now please? Please?"

It is the desperation in her eyes that melt Grissom's ire. He looks towards Dr. Fernandez, who says, "I'll have one of the attendants provide you with a wheelchair, Miss Sidle."

"Thank you," Sara tells them both. She takes Grissom's hand in hers and speaks only to him. "Thank you very much."

oooooooooooo

Sara's apartment is as she remembered. She's fortunate that her building has elevators, as she'd have a hell of a time climbing the two flights of stairs to her home. It is nice to be back among the modern conveniences, such as toilets that flush and soap and electricity and dishwashers and cell phones and most importantly, air conditioning. God bless the man that invented air conditioning.

Grissom is with her during most of his free time; the others rotate their off-hours and off-nights to stay with her while Grissom is at work. Sara spends the majority of her days asleep in her bedroom while her babysitters watch TV or tinker on her computer. Greg especially loves to play an online computer game; he even installed software on her computer in order to play it. She doesn't know the name, but the characters on her small monitor appear very detailed and vibrant.

It is only for a week that she is confined to the wheelchair. Finally, on a Friday, she is declared fit to walk at her physical therapy session. The following Monday she is x-rayed and fitted with a walking cast for her shattered foot. The physical therapy doctors seem confident that it will heal fairly well; in time she may not even need a cane to walk properly, although it is likely she will have a slight limp.

The damage to her foot was extensive; most of the major bones, including her ankle, were broken as they bore the weight of her fall. Her dislocated shoulder was another casuality, but that too is healing nicely.

She also sustained multiple bumps and bruises when she tumbled down the narrow shaft; those have long since healed. It is the damage to her skull that is her most serious injury. Twenty-three stitches run a diagonal along the back of her head. At times, pain she is all too familiar with will return. The trauma she received caused extensive swelling of her brain and is what forced her into the coma. Dr. Fernandez told her she was incredibly lucky – most people with damage of the same caliber have partial or permanent brain damage.

There are times when Sara forgets certain things, or she seems a little slower than she thought she was. But the physical therapy does help and those doctors assure her that with a little time, she'll be as good as new.

One afternoon, while Grissom is quietly reading and Sara is munching on an egg salad sandwich he prepared for her, a stray thought, a lost memory perhaps, comes into focus in Sara's mind. With a leap, she is on her feet and walking as fast as she can to her bedroom.

Grissom looks up from his book, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. "Sara?" When she does not reply he hurries towards her bedroom, quite concerned. He finds her balancing on a folding chair, scanning the top shelf of her bookcase feverishly.

"It must be here. I know I didn't throw it away!" she murmurs to herself.

"Honey, is everything okay?"

"I… I need to find a book."

"All right, do you need any help? Please do be careful standing on that chair, will you?" Grissom wisely places himself beside her in case she was to fall.

"It must be here. I know I kept it. I wouldn't throw it away… oh I hope I didn't throw it away!"

"Perhaps you put it someplace else?" Grissom asks, attempting to humor his girlfriend while enjoying the view of her rear end. "There are some books in the shoeboxes in your closet."

Sara pauses. "How do you know about the boxes in my closet? Did you look in them?"

Grissom looks sheepish. "Well, yes. I did."

She shoots him a look; she knows what he found in one of the boxes. Stepping gingerly off of the chair, she says, "Was there a romance novel in there, one with a picture of a half-naked cowboy entwined with a blonde on the front? '_Stampede Of Passion' _I think it's called?"

"Uhm… I don't recall seeing a book like that, Sara."

"Distracted by the other items in the box?" she coos as she leans into him.

"Er…"

Sara giggles at his discomfort, she herself not feeling quite comfortable either. "You know that's old. I haven't … in years you know."

"Yes, I could tell. The battery was dead. It was very old too."

"You turned it on? And looked at the battery?"

"Well, I really have never seen one up close. I mean, there were those on that one case, in the dishwasher, but I didn't process them."

"Gil Grissom, you are something else. Why don't you get the boxes since you know where to find them, and we'll look for my book, hmm?"

The tattered paperback novel Sara is looking for is in the older of the two shoeboxes. She holds _Stampede of Passion_ in her hands, feeling the familiar tear along the back cover and the feel of the bent pages in her palm. The half-naked black haired man with the cowboy hat is still grotesquely entwined with a blonde woman in a pale dress whose arms are inhumanly long as they reach up towards the man's face.

"This book has a history, Gil. This was my first entry into the realm of sex education. A girl in French class, Emily, gave it to me. She said she stole it off her mother's dresser… why her mother never wondered where it went is beyond me. When I finished it, I gave it back to her but she said not to bother, her mother thought the dog ate it and she was going to buy a new one. So I kept it."

"This book," Sara says fondly, settling herself on her bed, "is about a young woman who travels from Boston to a mining town out west." She flips through the first few chapters, searching for a passage. "Unfortunately for her, she gets walloped on the head by a bad guy quite soon after arriving in town, and she develops amnesia. I must have read this book a hundred times." When Sara finds what she's looking for, she reads aloud.

"'_You have amnesia', Doc Roberts says quietly._

'_I do?' Serendipity asks hesitantly._

'_Yes,' Roberts nods. 'I'm afraid you do.'_

_Serendipity studies the room she does not seem to remember. Everything is soft and homey, inflaming within her a feeling of tranquility. The brilliant rays of sun provide fingers of light to her sanctuary; the furniture accenting her comfort. White lace curtains drift idly in a slight breeze and the white linens on her bed bring back memories of her infancy. The worn oil lamp resting on the bed stand nearby appears often used; its wick is dark and short with use. Next to it rests an old-fashioned Bible, the silk ribbon dangling over the side of the stand._

'_I cannot remember,' Serendipity wails hopelessly. 'Oh heavens, whatever shall I do!'_

'_It will all come back to you in a while, my dearest. You are in the settlement of Nelson, near the Techatticup Mine. You live here - with me, Ann and Daniel. You are a registered nurse of The Union, Yankee-born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts. Does any of that sound familiar?'_

_Serendipity raises her hands to her head in abject confusion. Doc Roberts touches her shoulder in a fatherly way, attempting to console her. 'It will come back to you, dear. Just rest here for the evening and I'll have Annie bring you something to sup' later.'"_

"Sara," Grissom asks as he places his hand on her knee, "uh… who wrote this book?"

"Sharon Moyer. She was a big name historical romance writer back then. Had five or six books, I think."

"She… wasn't very good."

"Oh no, she was more than not very good. She was horrific. She wrote the tackiest, cheesiest romance novels around in the most bizarre settings. People adored her; said she was a genius." Sara flips through to the next chapter.

"_The masked rider strides towards Serendipity slowly, his stallion's head jerking as the magnificent beast fights for control from the man astride him. The man quietly utters a horse-like command, and the horse instantly quiets itself, succumbing to the clearly stronger will of the man. Serendipity's delicate bay mare is not used to such things and shuffles her hooves in fright. But Serendipity is not afraid, even when the man dismounts and approaches her with a lustful fire in his eye. He's dressed entirely in black, the cold glint of the gun in his hand entirely too visible in the waning light. Its dark barrel is pointed straight at Serendipity's chest._

'_Dismount,' he growls._

'_I will do no such thing!' Serendipity replies avidly._

_The masked man grabs Serendipity and pulls her from her timid mount. His fiery kiss immediately ignites an ember deep within Serendipity's soul, despite her will to deny it._

'_Oh, Serendipty,' the man moans as he kisses her swollen lips and caresses her breast with his strong, manly hand. Serendipity feels her chaste body respond to his advances and becomes frightened. She tries to fight her wanton womanly desires and pushes against his hard, flat chest, driving him away._

'_I... I do not know you!' Serendiptiy gasps. _'_Keep your vile hands off me!' _

_The man chuckles. _'_You don't recognize me? Pity, because I know you. Quite well.' _

_Serendipity puts the pieces together quickly, as she is quite a smart young lady. _'_Why, you… you are the horrid El Vaquero De La Noche! You murdered my only brother! I shall have nothing to do with you! Get! Get now from my sight this very instant!' "_

Sara is laughing to herself as she reads the last passage. "This really is terrible. This is what my mind came up with? Wow, I might need therapy after all."

"Therapy?" Grissom is quite puzzled.

Sara faces him and explains as briefly as she can about what she experienced when she was in her coma. "I didn't want to tell anyone, it all seemed so very… real to me. But now I can see, it was just my mind playing out this book. And a terrible book it was at that."

"I can't believe this book was your education in sex," Grissom states, horrified.

"Oh yes. For a foster kid, parental guidance was out of the question. And schools weren't that eager to teach all the nuances of sex to us teenagers. Thought we'd go experiment and get pregnant and all. Which some did, which is why they teach it now." Sara flips to the middle of the book, scanning page by page.

"God Dammit!"

"What?"

"She won the damn bake-off. Why couldn't I have won the bake-off?"

"Because you can't cook?" Grissom realizes his mistake the second after he blurts it out.

"I can too cook! I … okay well maybe you are better at it than I am." Sara shoves him lightly and returns to flipping through the book.

"See this?" she says. "This was my first experience with sex."

"_Serendipity clings tightly to Bo Raider, shuddering tremulously. _'_I was so frightened! That inhuman beast was going to maul me!'_

'_Yes, Ser,' Bo huskily murmurs as he holds her, _'_I'm sure he was. It is a good thing that my Indian friend Walking Bear responded to my call and was able to prevent that terrible rogue from harming you." He strokes her soft blonde hair gently. _'_I don't think I would have been able to live with myself if anything happened to you.'_

'_Oh, Bo, how can I ever repay you for your kindness? I was ever so wrong to blame you for the death of the beloved brother that I cannot remember; it is obvious to me now that you could never commit such a heinous crime!'_

'_Oh, Ser, having you here with me is payment enough. Every moment I spend with you is like a fabulous gift, a never-ending dream come true. You must know now how much I love you and I swear to you now, on the graves of my ancestors, that I shall always love you and only you!'_

'_Oh, Bo, I have always loved you as well! I just was too clouded by my foolish notions to notice! Take me, take me now beneath the heather and prove your love to me!'_

'_Oh, Ser, you deserve so much better than this!' Bo Raider slowly caresses Serendipity Lamont's silken cheek with his muscular, tanned hands. His lips gently caress her delicate skin as he carefully removes her bodice, exposing the ripe, round melons of her breasts. _

'_Oh touch me, please Bo, touch me!' He fulfills her wishes and suckles greedily on her taut nipple. Serendipity cries out in ecstasy at his flaming touch._

_It is with great care that he spreads her lithe legs and presses his throbbing member into the tight, eager petals of her gentle feminine sex..."_

"SARA!" Grissom shouts, slamming the book closed. His eyes are bright and small blooms of color are burning on his cheeks.

"What, Grissom?" she asks innocently.

"That… that is _porn_! You read that as a teenager?"

"Sure! That's nothing. They aren't even doing anything kinky. I will admit that this book in particular is a really bad example of romance writing, but women love to read about fictional characters having unrealistically amazing sex with incredibly virile men who fulfill their every need."

Grissom's eyebrows rise in a classic confusion pose. "Women want men to fulfill their every need?"

Sara shrugs. "Some do. Women like it when men dote on them and make them feel special." Sara closes the book and with a sigh, puts it back into the old shoebox. "Well, at least now I know where my mind got the idea." She sighs in resignation. "It was all very real to me though. I suppose that is what it is like when you're in a coma, you know? They say people have weird experiences as their minds try to piece together what happened."

Grissom doesn't reply, and Sara turns to him. "What?"

"I have a question," he states in his non-emotional voice.

"Yes?"

"In your dream, who was Bo, the El Vaquero character?" The reddish hue returns to Grissom's cheeks. "Did you… were you intimate with him in your fantasies?"

"Well, I'm not sure I should tell you. It was very personal, after all."

"Oh. I see."

Sara's voice is a soft purr. "He wasn't all that tall, but he was very handsome. He had salt and pepper hair and these intense blue eyes. He worked as an apothecary by day, and rode a dark stallion named Dante at night." Sara scoots over on the bed to lean against Grissom. His sharp intake of breath is a token of how long it has been since they've been together. The exploration of their newfound romance was cut horrifically short by Sara's accident. In fact, Sara could count on one hand the number of times she and Grissom had been intimate. In her mind, that needed to change, right now.

She runs one fingernail up and down his thigh, causing him to shift his weight nervously. "Sara…"

"Yes?"

"You… are you up for this?"

"You betcha."

A great deal later, Sara lays happily against his chest, both of them sated and content. Grissom, with a hint of smugness, asks her, "So, was I as good as your fairytale dream man?"

Sara smiles against his skin and replies, "Don't worry yourself, Gil. I will always prefer the flesh and blood of reality to any idealistic dreams or fantasies."

A moment passes before Grissom replies softly, "That's disappointing. I was looking forward to wearing the mask."

_THE END _

* * *

**Epilogue: Three Months Later.**

"Did you pack all the boxes into the back of the car?" Sara hollers down the narrow hallway.

"Yes," Grissom replies, "as well as the two garment bags."

Sara takes one last look at her now-empty apartment. The walls were painted a neutral beige a week ago, and what was once her sanctuary has now become a stranger. With a sigh she does one last walkthrough, checking each cabinet and closet for any items she might have missed.

Grissom returns to her, beads of sweat coalescing on his brow. "We done?" he puffs.

"Think so."

His firm hand rests on her shoulder. "Leaving something behind?"

Sara murmurs, "I'm not sure. It might be more of a 'closing one door to open another' type of thing."

"Well, when you're ready honey, I'll be out in the car… blasting the air conditioner." Sara smiles at his departing back. He is very good about giving her the space she needs. How did she ever get so lucky?

She gives her old home one last look before closing and locking her door. One last trip to the main office to return her key and that's it. She's on to a new life with Grissom.

As she walks down the hall, the elderly woman in 315 opens her door, an empty canvas grocery bag looped through one arm and her large black purse looped around the other. Behind her is a view of her kitchen countertop, much more homey and domesticated than Sara's. Sara used hers as a repository for all of her miscellaneous mail and junk.

The elderly woman pauses. "You," she states. "You live in 321. Come in at all hours of the night. What's your name?"

"My name is Sara Sidle. But I'm moving out today. I am sorry if I disturbed you. I work the graveyard shift for the forensics department."

It's clear the woman doesn't understand what forensics is. "Well, I can't say I'm sorry to see you go, but good luck to you."

"Thank you. Your home looks lovely. Are those antiques?" Sara points to six white canisters, all lined up in a row on her counter. Each has a different symbol embossed on the side.

"Why yes... would you like to see them? I inherited them from my mother, who inherited them from my great-aunt, I believe. Maybe great-great aunt, I can't quite remember how many greats there were in there. But she was quite the baker, she was, and my mother kept all of her recipes and handed them down to me. Why, in my day I could bake the best apple pie you've ever tasted, I'm sure! In fact…"

The woman drones on but Sara isn't listening anymore. She is intently focused on one of the canisters, the one with a picture of an ear of corn. She takes it in her hand and holds it out to the old woman. "This is cornstarch, right?"

"Why yes, dear, that's what the little pictures mean. That one is wheat, for flour, that one is sugar cane, for sugar, that one in your hand is for cornstarch, that one is a bean, for coffee…"

"Ma'am, what was your great… er, great-great aunt's name?"

"The same thing as me, Ann Louise Whittaker. Wait, that's not right. Whittaker is my married name. So she must have been Ann Louise Robbins. My father was a Robbins. Why do you ask?"

"No… no reason." Sara carefully places the canister back on the shelf and steps slowly backward out of the apartment. "Thank you for showing me your lovely home, Ms. Whittaker. I'm sorry I didn't get to spend more time with you. I would have liked to have heard more about your aunt."

"Ah well, nice meeting with you then." Ms. Whittaker is back to locking up her apartment and preparing for her shopping trip. "Take care!"

"You too, Ms. Whittaker."

Sara leaves her apartment building for the last time mumbling to herself.

"... it can't be… it just can't be…"

_THE END... really this time_


End file.
